A Saint and his Cathedral.

I bit my lip. I knew I might be going to hell.

There are nights so vacant and hushed, I can feel the texture of my tattered soul moving within me. Black Tar. Dripping, sticky and thick. A soft, slow secretion of indifference slopping through the hollow suit I use as a body.
Transported.
Past deeply submerged buildings in the calmest of nights, where wonderful women hide their bodies from hungry hands.
Understandable somehow.
I saw the driver drinking from beneath my lenses. He seemed ecstatic. I wonder what was going on in his head. Outside it.
He seemed to envision the world, slowly taking down its underwear. And I, a cat sitting at his table, looked with begging eyes. Begging to understand. A luxury, animals such as myself rarely enjoy.
The car stopped. And with it, time. A second, not longer.
The cold hurried us to a door bored with inactivity. Inside, we dined with hyennas. With bald women and men in dresses. With girls in 3D printed clothes. I sighed. The chain had tightened around my neck. I'm no Prometheus, but I suffer. And I forget. And I remain silent about it.
About Everything.

Outside, in a backalley, an Orpheus played his saxophone. Not even two pennies for the ferryman in his hat. I headed outside. I was a skeleton hiding under a skeleton mask. How avant-garde! How pitifuly uninspired. As I walked the streets, beggars flooded everything. Children. I ignored them and they gestured something. I couldn't think of a thing that could offend me that night.

"The future belongs to those who can see it". I'm no clairvoyant. I am just a rabid dog. Chained by others like myself. Not barking. Mute. A grab of the cock. A scratch show on the abdomen or back. These are the things that silenced me.

Outside the visible world, children trade life for plastic. For metal. For hope. As the darkness chews all they know, Tiamath pulls them ever further from their dreams. He watches them, as an ugly sister would watch her sibling and her lover from behind a window. Waiting for time to claim them.
It is a guernican perspective.

Inside the still visible world, the harbor still shines as a beautifully sculptured corpse. Constantly stabbed by his tiny ant residents. Its patience astounds me. He seems to shout at the city: BE THE WORST YOU CAN BE! But none of us can be an atom bomb.
Not yet
.
As we citizens pick the scabs of the city, a 45 year old winter settles in. She pouts. Constantly crying. I would fuck her and tell her she is beautiful. Fuck her and turn her into spring. But that's not always how life blooms in a more beautiful color. A lesson the manuals of men never teach.

I am done with the rain. With streets. With liquor. The shop windows look at me; force me to look at myself. Be a environmentalist Marius! Save water! Shower in your own blood if humanity is ruining your water. I walk further on. I am tired of quarreling with glass.
It is always right.

One day, I will become a painter. I will splatter fish across the skies. Supernatural nature, tell me how to cope with infinite railroads that make the plight of running even worse? You see, I have lost my will to imagine female anatomies. It's been two years now. 24 months of clinical death. Some days I suspect I have a cross stuck in my skull. To deep to think straight. To visible to let anyone approach me. Have you stabbed me with it? Or did I do it myself?
Who knows anymore?

Coffee moves through the house in a waltz. I wake. The light took refuge in some other city. My dreams, dispelled like troll dolls pulled out of production.
I follow the living. Cats made of dots turn the lonely into the dead. The others, nurture orgasms like broken pipelines. Smearing the streets with empty laughter. With misplaced hope. Hope that builds of vision of pure morning incarnating one day. The morning that will pave the streets with clean love. But the asphalt is ever dirty. No matter how many pipes explode. The wallet pays, if you're lucky. If not, your soul.

School yards bless themselves with life. More life. Or less life. According to the pipe infrastructure. On passing by, you hear children talking of sex. They plant their animal roots in the concrete and wither, growing black and hollow. Dead, but dreaming. Of women swallowing their sun. Of all the things that grown men dream but are ashamed of admiting.
Distracted, I watch these little plump angels. Queing at McDonalds, trying to decide what to get. Meanwhile, virgin maries throw gang signs in clubs opened long before their birth. But it's alright. Although the world sleeps with a lion beside her, it is ever skeptical that there is anything wrong.

By Dalis Eye! How I miss my young and empty head.