It’s the city. It’s the dream. It’s all about the end of the world.





The dream always comes. We spread out our picnic on the arcing arm of the 427 reaching over and down to the gardiner, the long, straight artery stretching into the heart of the empty city.

That feeling, when grew wings made of soaring guitar solos on a highway in the sky over the city of lights. We fucking blasted off. We could have been the ones to explode at Cape Canaveral. We could have been huge. Who am I kidding, we had the same faulty seals in our solid fuel boosters; we exploded, we were glorious. We were huge.






And the slow motion walk towards the camera, as the building I’ve just exited buckles and explodes… The wind from the explosion flutters my hair and my unbuttoned shirt. I flick away the best cigarette I’ve ever smoked. My skin glistens with sweat and grime and the sun glints off my sunglasses. Credits roll.






We were born in cellophane and excess packaging. Predestined to receive the mass message of collective individuality. Memories sold separately.


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Are you that someone whose eyes I can look into for a long time, without you looking away or commenting on it or anything? Someone who’ll just let me stare deep into them with my hand on their cheek… and let everything I want to feel and say just fall out of me and float in the space between us?