SURELY HEAVEN, OR DEATH, OR BOTH

Consider me the mirror that no longer reflects.

I am an android of skin of monsters of gods of books of fairytales of magic of hate of despair of betrayal of bones of life of death of vomit of blood of sweat of tears of air of carbon of nitrogen of hydrogen of the reason seperating me from you, is that you are not on fire, not in the same way I consider myself to be.

I am the swept-under-the-rug of a generation that was an accident. Consider me the future that will never arrive. I feel the cherub in red crushing me. This is a veneration of some sort. Do not be alarmed; we will look upon these black days in history books or essays or short stories or dissertations or articles or encyclopedias or almanacs or powerpoints or pictures or slideshows or files or novels or novellas or written on the ground in chalk or on the walls in a liquid of unfound origin. And we will look upon these black days, and we will laugh.

And we will then pollute again. We are bad men in bad times.