Wait for the interview.

Read Dune or scribble ‘verse’ with a fried brain?

Death row. It’s a sentence with no way out, and after awhile (a long while), it’s a living. Just like any other, this living begins with the death of hope. When your lungs swell up with stagnated air, there is no hope. There is no trance with which you can induce fictitious pleasure, or escape the brutality of the present. The reaper is omnipotent, and we teeter on the edge of a finely sharpened rapier. Death is a sentence with no way out. Hopeless and destitute, until the end of June. One month too soon, if only I had hope for two.

Water droplets perfumed with a woman’s lashes as they brush against your ear and her eyes are closing, and she is closer now then ever before. Cascade through alternating modes of consciousness, and the elasticity of divine. Celestial. She has indoctrinated my senses with her sense of urgency, and I am blind. Oblivious to my own needs, or simply aware of the only one need that ever mattered. I am whole.

From across a vast distance, I thought I heard an angel shrieking. They say that every time an angel dies, the devil sounds his bells. Whenever I hear hell’s bells I try and remember that nothing lasts forever. Immortality is the vomit which tricks the mind in believing that it has achieved enlightenment. Pandering to the bitterness is a subtle balm, but subtlety is relative safety. Feels like mourning’s dew.

I seem to have forgotten a time when Mr. Underhill had to travel cautiously through these same streets. So, I charge down the battlefield with my banner clapping in the wind above my head, and when I search for my opponent, I’m greeted by a cursor on a blank page. It’s always challenging me. Pull down the fiction, and imbue the white space, with your imperfect stain. Your strain of bacterial-fiction may just procreate without fear of limitation, and in that case, gods help the city streets. So say we all.

With the potential to stir the ocean, or ravage the unsuspecting heart, words have enslaved me. I’m enamored with their sound, charmed by their myriad meanings, and their euphoric contradictions, and I give my heart whole-mindedly to their pursuit. To the pursuit of happiness through contemplation, I’m resigned. My delight. My pleasure. I took the top-shelf fiction down from the place where I pin my dreams, and submerse myself in the text, and run greedy fingers through its sub-texts. Life is like a dream.

My fiction grew exponentially, as if saturated with leaves or grass, or Langston’s hues, and it brought me to the outer reaches of the atmosphere, where I feared nothing. “Fear is the mind killer,” or so it’s written upon the dune-winds, but far above the city I fill my sails with the winds of fiction. Such winds never expire. Images are neither created nor destroyed, they are discovered, and upon rumination, they are loved.

I took the top shelf fiction down from the place where I keep all my secrets, and though there are only a few, I like this one best. So I tie it around my waist, like a life line, and let it lift me off the ground. The ceiling opened up, and the clouds parted to reveal a starry night. Who needs wings when you love to write?

I think this is going to be my favorite movie this summer.