My street is an alcove of impossibility, carved from the shell of an opal. A Los Angeles Lagoon, a miracle molded from this noisy enigma of a city. Shielded from the eagerness of everyone else, and their galleries of falsehood. It is something I scribbled into a journal sprung to life, like a holographic configuration of a teenage daydream. God lives here. Curtained by lush greenery, its threshold tended by blue singing birds.The cathedral, the church, the cunt and the club. My street means, “protected one” in german, and I live next to Odin and Alcyone, a Nordic Viking God and A Pleidian Stargate. In the morning, it is so still, I feel suspended. Impossible.
My 8am probably feels like your six am.
You unnerve me and amuse me. You are impossible to hate but your choices infuriate me. Even in silence, there are subterranean somatics that ripple in all directions. One look and I am back, hip deep into you, on the verge of rapturous electrocution. When I look at you I feel the permanence of everything. An explosive fusion of two chromosomes, of atoms. I see the future and the past all at once. Forever waves of an inconsolable ocean. I fell in and I don't know how to come back.
If you were here, and not there, I would offer you protection. Be your holy place, ignite you. Curate reverence inducing beauty, and eradicate your hatred. Heal your wounds, grant you warmth. A fireplace in the evening, lit to ensure you would never be blacklisted for your bravery. I don't do cocaine anymore, but I can restore your health. Unlike her, the flowers I keep are always alive. My bed sheets are egyptian cotton, and they will safely escort you, in a gondola, towards the right kind of dream. I vacuum in high heels and I cook gourmet dinners. I get my self esteem from hauling my ass up the mountain, and I match make garden snails. The only conflict we have would be resolved by mud wrestling. I could get on my hands and knees and help unearth any remaining genius. I could swaddle you in faraday blankets and be promiscuously honest. Extinguish your doubts, surrender all of my agendas. Swallow your sins. Bow down to you in servitude, with innocence. I don't make music, but I can listen. I would eradicate your fear, resurrect your wildness. We wouldn’t need any spectators.