Your name is_ _ _ _. Your friends are A-Z compounds. You study at a university. Your parents are divorced and your sister is younger than you. You are hopelessly attached to the idea of falling in love and living in a grungy studio apartment with one who dabbles in eroticism and has a great patience for the absurd. There will be art and there will be Nabokov and Maupassant and there will be dimly lit rooms decorated by skulls and pop icons with tape on their mouths. There will be cigarette smoke and Radiohead's "Lucky" playing in the background. You flirt with your self-diagnosed insanity and dwell on the overarching possibility that you are unstable and wonderful. You have more interest in fiction than you do your own fact, and existentialism and flatulence are topics of interest.
You is me.
**Nothing belongs to you.
Fear will be washed away, ignorance will be exposed to sunlight; profits and empire will lie drying on deserted beaches; violence will be submerged and transmuted in rhythm and dancing.
Live people ignore the strange and unusual. I, myself, am strange and unusual.