Nathaniel Clark

It is late, it is early, it is dif­fi­cult to decide. I am hun­gry, I am wasted, I am aching, I am wired. It is dawn some­where in the world, right now, this moment. I have a puls­ing vein in my tem­ple, I have a an excess of ions in my blood, I have bur­dock in my eyes, I have two iron legs. I have found that chas­ing demons tends to bring the Devil him­self out. The baby starts to wake up, and when he does– well, then it’s his world. The churn­ing of the dish­washer merges with the soft plush implo­sions echo­ing from the speak­ers, mak­ing a sort of liq­uid insect sym­phony. That reminds me that the sound­track of life is rarely a melodic one — rather, it is com­min­gled tex­ture; com­merce with the ghosts; ethe­real entan­gle­ments– invis­i­ble, tac­tile, & some­how– in the end– inter­nal. I am rid­ing a wave of choco­late con­scious­ness, a hazy sub­tle orgasm of endor­phins and a con­stant push towards unblink­ing­ness. I know it won’t last. There is a place in your head that gives all thoughts extra­or­di­nary depth. There are only 2 ways of look­ing at your mate­r­ial pos­ses­sions, and one of them is exhaust­ing. In the end. 10 min­utes have passed. Good Night.