Lost Blue Things, Recognized

Do not write about a memory, or a cluster of memories, or a tangle or wad or wound of them. Don't think about those people whose faces are all swapping pieces and whose voices are cresting waves of white noise. This is all pixels and magnetic witchcraft. The only rule you have to follow is the one painted in red paint on the glass above you, the cracking glass covered in birdshit, dissolving.

Lie on your back on the tortured concrete of this place, feel the garbage of this life press into your back flesh, masturbate furiously, masturbate with panic in your eyes, masturbate until you get hungry then go eat something, drink something, engage in whatever self-care practices will bring you peace.