Recently some shit has gone down with several dear friends of mine. You know my policy of not revealing personal details without consent. So I now present the most completely vague metaphorical accounts I can muster. I.E., here goes my decoder ring:

*Smoked glass beaming headlong, down the days gone back, glass tipped until darkness drops droned in circle spins. Unconscious patina, rain water trellis shot down by awareness. Days meander. The high pitched goat is silenced to the hills of memory. Only the holes knew how the light ended. Cornucopia purgatory. I would slit the wrists of circumstance to keep your throat wet.

*Dance the geometry, laced in jerky scabs of squiggles. Sudden the alarm, swift the return. Moons had died. Lonely stars broke bread with skeptic silence. Annointed sanity, the only tears the ones that can't be shed. The path and shoes don't agree at first, but become accustomed not too long after. Through parking exploits I heard tintinabulation laughter. Images like M-80's. How the fuck is Maegan?

*A waltzing masquerade, all at once the comedy, the un-tragic tragedy. Flow like the fan, the wind and sun, gathering as storms in youth. Act III circumscised by a bold putsch. And red rain crashed from the sky. Festered rotting emotion, pin-prick awareness, delicate loss of control among the whistling jackass trees. No passing light, nor clarity, to be had by hand or foot. Passing underneath the wading pool of succor, transfixing to restore the way, numb acerbic, and all the sudden focused.

Macabre opera dies in a snap.

Sacred; asphalt choking to rise above water. All at once: respite and dousing by ear. Light broke through clouds of ignomy and ill-timed selfishness. The sun and the moon scattered silence. Token aurora dialects scampered. Restoration and thought. Punctuation and peace offered by light-smithing. All at once reality and fantasy comingle, and the universe a fruit weighed low upon the branch.

Willow branches of brown leaves.

A jogging errand. Possible parking citation. Cross-town attempt. Averted.

The order is restored, shaky. Tenuous. A debt of one candle for a noble wish.

The only other thing to add right now:

I am thinking entirely too much of that burnt out abandoned house Nicholas accompanied me to take photographs of. The presence of the thing was enormous at the time. I felt compelled to go inside, but I thought something might collapse. That and I got that feeling. You know. The same feeling I got that night the phone died on a convo with Kare and I had an...interaction with one of the non-corporeal locals.

You bet your ass I hope it was a delusion.

But I've been getting weird thoughts. While I was editing the photograph of it late the first night I came back, I got...well, that feeling. Quickly banished, whatever it was, but yet I am compelled by some strange mind twist.

So entirely horrific and sad and foreboding.

I want to visit when I go for spring break. How fucking off my nut am I? I want to visit a torched, abandoned house with a palpable 'never come here' vibe. It has secrets. And it expressly wants no one inside. I should just stop thinking about it. But then I wonder... which leads me to think...but then I don't get involved on that side of the veil. I've never needed to.

Why the hell would I want to complicate my life further by dragging in that aspect of my metaphysical training? I'll leave the recent and masochistic dead to their own devices--until a friend or someone damn well expresses the immediate and insistent need for a tour guide. Then I'll bust out the family secrets and do it.

What is this obsession with urban decay?

What am I trying to learn from it? I can't actually believe I want to be it. No. I have been down that path and seen others entirely consumed by it. Walking mutant scraps of apathy, torn by radiation and warped beyond the pale of necessary suffering.

Something as superficial as "it makes me feel something very strongly," perhaps. No weapon, word, or malice evokes the same stale horror and fascination. It's as if death were time lapse photography.

I have to stop writing about this and clear my mind. I never dream about mundane things and I don't need a nightmare on this theme. The spider biting a large flying thing then leaping straight at my face one was bad enough.

I really am normal. I just have an unusual upbringing and...tastes.

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