i forget how i got here but i remember how your lips feel against mine

walden freeman

the world in the eyes of a mime with an opera singing voice and tourettes syndrome must be like a kindergartener's multi-colored construction-paper utopia with stick figures for friends. imagine this, on a table, where a simple cut-out of one of the people becomes a commentary for any silhoutte visible at the time. a hole in reality or the cosmic scheme in which the empty space where outer space or a universe should be must just be less than a vaccuum and yet more than we tiny humans can grasp. and we look at elderly men comparing one anothers' green grass on opposite sides of a white fence. perhaps with intentions of sleeping with someone else's wife, we can move forward to the masked oxygen of burnt throats and the leaky roofs of our sister's mouths and easter dinners without health or healthy appetites. pillow-fisted prize-fighters crowd the local drugstore in hopes of attaining some sort of glory by knocking their competition out with sleeping pills with small hands painted on them. we -- the inhabitants of this post-1984 town -- have written survival guides for those whose lives are only a slightly better than ours while we behave like beehives or some lost constructed society that looked better on paper than in practice.