The killer approaches the television pole. With his left hand he pulls his nine out and pops three caps into the wood. Splinters shatter around the exploding sparks.
“I’ve got a lent to pay.” I say. “Tributary must be taken.”
The hot frequencies fall over my face. The act of living has breached the screen. The fact that I exist within the dreams of others brings a great hope to death, which in turn loosens the strain of life’s grip. I have the power to move these limbs. What you see is a movement of your own eyes. I step through the opening in the box. Inside becomes my home, my room, my studio apartment, the city, the world. Time becomes a film reel, a blog post, a tweet, a poem, a flat circle.
Psychotic mythology manifesting in the physical realm. Its a competition of who can bring the most light. Humans are incapable of darkness. Darkness is an environment within which theatrics take place. Those who live within the box camera dance. And the cameras are becoming smaller and smaller.
If the structure destructed in the future we could have billions of channels: that’s why it would be so much fun working for the NSA: so much amateur porn without camera anxiety getting in the way; just a laptop with a lifted screen and a good angle.
So many actors taking the stage simultaneously. How many of them have channels already? Que them up through your DVR and watch their lives unfold each night. Hire a professional editor for enhanced publicity. Perhaps you will win series of the year?
Some people are getting awards but its still so difficult ignoring the cameras… I pretend I’m being watched already; as though God’s watching me, or an internal audience.
Lindsay Lohan is being watched and paid by Oprah. Doctor Phil is getting in the way of everything even though he’s not practicing psychology. Personal assistants are keeping everybody’s lives on track. There’s no reason not to take life into your own hands and do what you want with it. There is so much given up with control. There is more to life than existing because it might be all that there is. So what matter is it that you search through the plain? Existence is no thing; it is the darkness. We are pulling things through the aether; but at what cost? Because is energy ever just created? Have we seen new atoms? Who’s counting? Has all been accounted for? How tenuous is this structure we exist within.
Oprah is the queen seer, watching pledges burn to her divinity. The fires light our nights of loneliness. Her logo burns the corner of the screen. The celebrity’s team is abandoning her. The vehicle transporting her through the oceans of paparazzi sharks is disintegrating, leaving her uncovered in a dangerous environment. A dedicated and loyal staff is so important to members of royalty. The servants are slipping away. The death is contagious and fatal to the nucleus. Once you have been sniffed by the predatory pack you cannot escape them. The more you bleed the more scent there is to attract. Life becomes a painful haze. The torture of plastic surgery warps our image, turning us into unrecognizable monsters. Uglier and uglier; weirder and weirder; holding onto that inner light which only seems to brighten with the pain.
“I am here with you;” I say, looking through the screen. “still speaking and thinking. That’s what I have to offer: a voice in the mania; something to be clung to; something present.”