Month: September 2025

I wake in a pink coffin, Malibu sunrise, California dream and palm trees baptize this show. Depression smells like plastic perfume, an unlit cigarette between my barbie lips. It ticks, like a psalm ticking down to a bomb. Face-palm. Il n’est de orquestra. A magazine-shaped guillotine castrating my fantasy. Hasan Piker on loop just to scoop up my femininity and fear of men. It’s a coupe, maybe, guess I’m just a corpse wanting make-up, wanting to fuck fame until fame fucks me back and spits out glitter in a Lynchesque cable table TV-screen, while I dream there’s an eviction staged as performance art, a postmodern simulated tragedy on hyperdrive putting me on fire. did I mention I lost my partner and gained a monster and called it love? ha! ha! laugh with me audience. studio lights burning holes through my face, I lied to the doctor; no flashbacks here, just cinematic seizures in PTSD waiting for her close-up, Mulholland Drive kissing me with open scissors, am I Swedish girl or just made up? am I survivor punchline in a sitcom? angel or receipt stapled to a fridge? every man I wanted turned into a laugh track and every authority turned to silencio, Kafka scribbles eternity on a napkin, and I’m still here begging for a door that locks, a paycheck that doesn’t choke, a body that isn’t staged for audience approval, tick tick tick, and there is the applause.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I haven’t the slightest fucking idea what I’m up to. Death coils along my spine like a centipede while I try to keep my thoughts in check. Flies. Moths at best. They buzz as if my brain were a nightlight. Beelzebub; lord of the flies. I don’t even know if the subject speaking is me or a virus using me to configure its future existence.

Blood in the sink. Huh… From my nose. You look awful. The pale green eyes don’t help; they make the red look sickly. What’s the point of this anyway? That body? Stuck in its own past, by nostalgia and PTSD. You don’t even remember what it feels like to be human anymore. Or is this exactly that?

A cup of tea. Sometimes it helps. I want to be a little more than this. Because right now I’m just a dying corpse burning itself away with heat. Thoughts accelerating; not psychotic, because to be that you’d have to get lost like a hanged man in the woods. It’s rather the opposite. I know all too well where I am. To such a degree that the synapses are burning themselves apart. A dying body. The nosebleed is only a symptom. But isn’t everything a dying body? Why does it take the sun so long to die?

“You never walk alone, even the Devil is the lord of flies”.