The bass fades along with the dying brain cells, to keep them company with a mellow hum perhaps.
Why kill them, at night while talking to animated silhouettes?
Strange constellations of happy creatures, killing the cells to keep from experiencing the agony of existence. Maybe it should be so. It is so.
The swan song of the dying is more beautiful. Why?
Jotting these things down late at night. I don't know where they come from. I won't remember how. I think of all the groups of people laughing or swaying or slowing down or whatever it was they were doing, all black outlines with white glowing edges. But the most interesting person there was the solitary one grabbing his face in the dark.
What went on in his head that he had to grab it and pull it and push it away?
I answered a call on my cell phone from a number I did not recognize around 3:30 am. Supposedly a missed call from someone who was using my phone earlier in the night. We talked like old friends, both altered, both of our defenses down, friendly and trusting, warm; not like the awkward lapses that chop up conversation between people who have never met and who are in a state of normalcy.
