Why doesn’t anybody think about the damage they’re doing by pretending they give a shit? Why are you playing these stupid little games? Nothing is sacred. Not even my own privacy. Nor my very reason for being here. Stop boring me. Everything you do is so predictable the pattern is printed on the fabric of your cartoon character. You really make me laugh. Your consistent bumbling leaves me breathless. All I hear when you’re not tripping all over me is the continuous snapping of your bones. Why are you so loud? Why does everything you say echo? You’re a fucking cave you’re a fucking cave. You’re so eternally empty. When the light comes in it gets only as far as the floor. Then it crawls around inside you looking for your cracks, screaming to get out. If only you could keep just a little of it for just a little while, there would still be hope. Everything else cracks up in the face of reality but hope is a rock. It’s somewhere to sit when your legs are lame from all the running and chasing and hiding. If only you’d sit down. Maybe then things wouldn’t seem such a blur. Maybe, if you slowed down for a moment, you’d have a chance to find your feet. But you can’t even find your shoes.
You say you’ve got no time. Time always seems to be running out on you. You don’t have time for me you don’t have time for you. You don’t have time for a shit because you can’t shit and run at the same time. Look behind you. See the dust you’re kicking up? That’s not dust. It’s ash. It’s your fucking ash and it’s falling off you because you’re burning up. And you’ll never stop burning because you’re burning from the inside. It’s clawing at your gut, cooking your brain. The trail of ash you’re leaving goes round and round in the same circle. You’re running away and chasing at the same time. The stench of your burning flesh lingers in my nostrils and leaves a taste of sulphur in my mouth. It occurs to me that I pity you. Until now, all I felt was loathing. You offended me to the bone. But a feeling that runs so deep can’t run any deeper so it sinks to pity. I don’t know which is worse. To hate you or to pity you. One’s as bad as the other because they both require energy I shouldn’t waste on you. You probably think I’m bitter. You’re fucking right I’m bitter. I’m acrid! What’s left to be sweet about? Why should I be sweet to you when I keep standing in your droppings? Take your fire and go. You’re fouling up my space. I don’t want you breathing my air. Maybe somewhere you’ll find someone who has the same burning pain in the gut as you. Maybe then you’ll stop running because you’ll have someone to share your pain with. There are thousands, millions of people out there all holding their guts and running. You won’t have far to go. One of these days it’s going to rain and rain and rain so hard that your flesh will soak right through and the fire will go out. All the fires in all the guts around the world will die with a thick, smouldering hiss.
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