The last thing on your mind is the weight of your face as it melts inside your hands with tears and blood, snot, and saliva. Textures of muscle and flesh unlike chicken or pig or cow or [fish]. Slippery like a mistake or if this were on accident. Clawing at marks already clawed from several lives before because the clone of your clone was a clone in a generation of clones that knew none of these clones were clones of the already existed clones and in the beginning: neanderthal. We just got lazy. We started making up excuses. We plighted the very last bit of progression into devolution. Or just a stagnant sedentary nature that glides through life like the life before it, only this time slightly easier than the last. And again. Again. Grappling with the feeling that what you did wasn’t as important as a start that’ll forever shine in the sky to the vegetative plant life that outlives and outgrows humanity. But I did call my wife a Lilliputian for a while there after meeting in an Airport, coming back from New York, and we didn’t have sex that weekend, but everything worked out in the end:
More about: Airport, Miranda Pharis
