kirwilloughby

kirwilloughby

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ants

And its black gooey tendrils run up your side as you sleep, and in your otherwise-comfortable slumber soft pricks rouse you, and pincers pinch, and you await, unfairly stuck in the terror the borderlands; that bloodcurdling moment from the sickly world of fantasy to your ant ridden existence, staring outwards and not seeing, but only feeling them crawl.

The festivities ended with a kick of yarn right to the kisser. People had been writhing, the DJ had been pompadouring, and the awkward had been mingling. The stage was set, the song was sung, and a tempest of yarn fell from the ceiling in a fit of entangled rage.

"To photograph from a tine" Said the man in a V-neck sweater that had, in fact, read Proust, "is to express a given aesthetic in a mode of subtlety." And with that the room went quiet with the silence of the deaf, and the people were brought to erudition, and the esoteric was made light again, and the man remembered the frozen instant of glory before the next...

Paralyzed and analyzed, our hero reverberated. Shrink said to him, over and over again in ritualistic repetition, "What do you do when everything is taken care of?" Our hero dissociated into and away from himself, leaving and leaving and going off from the land where everything is A-Okay.

Mr. Li Bert was born of two names and two races. His Li came from Asia and his Bert from England. He called Moscow home, as a sort of compromise between the opposing geographical interests. And, of course, in that antipodal contradiction of names came a unity; LiBerty.

Along a long and desolate dirt road there lay a solitary item, fat and squishy in its texture, and porous in its notability. Into this little sponge would dirt flow, and out of would come steam and water.

offer

and its pulsating gaze offered worlds to me. In that maw of possibility where anything could happen but nothing ever did, I saw the true face of chaos: future possibility forever rendered in dripping invective by present discontent.

mist

In the misty tiff of Johann Boondock's dream, he was the winner. There, in that cloudy fluff of wonder, the sweat never hazed his vision, despair never clogged his arteries, and he always won the fight.

estru estru in estrus. Without passion and only with perspective and context and all the observational skills that four years of premed and eight of med school give you, I stood by and watched her writhe in estrus. Anarchic lust and postponed guilt.

From the final stint of match spark I ran. It struck the rough with surface precision and imbued chaos, chaos that conflagrated the remnants of my exile.

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writing since 2011 · 26 entries · 25 days shown up

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on this day 15 years ago

Cyrus wrote about punishment
“From the final stint of match spark I ran. It struck the rough with surface precision and imbued chaos, chaos that conflagrated the remnants of my exile.”

the words Cyrus reaches for

againstwhimsroomleavingmatterwhimairourselvesblackrefugegaincutsgrowsforeverchaossummer