This crucial effect of her presence—or her personality and personal history in that they tended to stand in precisely for presence—wasn’t so much calculated, but certainly wasn’t accidental. Violet was a secretive person and liked to stay off of people’s radar. At some point in her youth used had the profound recognition that people just don’t give a damn about each other in any way that might actually matter. And so maybe it was two revelations in one. First that people couldn’t be counted on for a god damned thing. And second that this lack of caring occasioned an almost total freeness within the world. It was probably on that day—if it was a day and not just the effect of the years of disillusionment of her youth—that she became a con artist of her own soul.
It wasn’t calculated per se. She just started letter people feel more comfortable with their own stories about her. She did some of this intentionally and consciously, but she never had any sort of end game in mind. At a party in her middle teens when she has been awkwardly dating a guy—in fits and starts—who for whatever reason got too much social attention, she’d performed her life’s only badass move. She’d caught him cheating at the party that they’d come to together. Telling the girl some infectious lies and snapping a few awkward photos of the poor boy, she sat down calmly next to him. Inside of the uneven and unenjoyable on and off dating she might have been trying to piece together a social life, but in a moment that was nail in the coffined. Maybe she’d be trying to repair her sense that people aren’t all good for nothing viewed at close enough range. She leveled with the guy. It was over, yes. There wasn’t any need for embarrassment, personal or social. She had these photos, which might be enough to destabilize his social career and all she wanted in exchange was for him to help implode her own.
“The fact that I’m asking you at all implies that I still have some faith in you, that I imagine you’re vaguely more interesting than the rest of our combined age group. What you’re going to do for me is deploy three different stories into the social scene” this was all on the spot, game strategy that would establish her for the rest of her life so acutely managed in this moment of its inception, preternaturally—maybe divinely inspired—this dense little cluster of tales like the big bang. “You tell the story of tonight as I tell it to you—don’t worry, you’re a slut banging hero. You tell the story of when we first met, which I’ll get down exactly for you since it is going to be a bit more complicated than you’re likely to remember. And finally, should occasion arise—and please, only if, like if you’re specifically asked for some extra special piece of information on that psycho you used to date, only, only, only—you’ll tell a little story, you probably heard from someone down the grapevine and the details are as musty as they come, of my precocious youth.”
She made him stay something like an hour verifying that he could be a trusted carrier of all this precious cargo. True to his word he was. Probably not from fear or coercion or any meanness of the knowledge of the effect either. Probably it was a noble and good hearted moment in the face of the pure oddity of the situation. Like she’d asked, looking him straight in the eye, to stab her right in the gullet. That true friendship at that moment would and could only mean that. And, she liked to believe, tho confused, he acted on some pure faith. She also liked to believe that she’d clearly occasioned that faith with some perfect look that she hadn’t spent any time in the mirror planning or adjusting, but arrived on her face as a piece of pure inspiration. Like of pure instances roaming around in this scene. But it really was the kernel of her life as a self-made women. True to his word those stories got on in a believable fashion and they spun out and continue to until the final heat death of the universe which hadn’t hit yet. Through college and on into early adulthood. Now at quarter life or beyond she reckoned they hadn’t yet seen their first half life.
________________
Now it was a man with a record collection and too skinny jeans and a fairly morbid self-loathing that, while hidden by the aforementioned effects, offered her no true solace. And this wasn't going to be about finding a way to get through the mire of her own stories and form a true connection with someone's inner soul. She was damned fucking sure of that. People were still unreliable schmucks. Probably more so now than when she'd first more or less consciously cocooned herself in talk all those years ago.
They guy had all the charm of his variant forms of superiority. That, more than any other single element of his discernible personality, was certainly my Violet had gotten attached to him. He willfully projected these terrible self-centered parts of himself, his collections of records or whatever else. A certain set of knowledge he'd accrued that could battle off anyone who'd try to talk to him. It was the most blatant kind of armour, but it was a devotion to the ability of knowledge to shield self that Violet assumed had to be consciously put on.
What had happened tho was that she realized that he was just a hurt kid. Probably she should have known that having consorted with these types before. But I guess she let the romance of her own system cloud her vision and imagine she saw sometime more in him than there was.
And that was the worst thing now because it implied that she was imagining some beautiful soul for him that she'd spent years believing she didn't care about or have herself. True, her version of a beautiful soul was an intelligent and calculating consciousness that understood the limits of representation in the world and desired simply to navigate social space all the while maintaining a comfortable anonymity. But now she was forced to admit, seeing this rank amateur version of herself, that the truth of it was that she was all along imagining some inner self of her own that was too good for the world of tales and tellers that had to recluse up inside of herself to stay pure. It was silly, but she was insistent even with this new knowledge that she'd glimpsed a serious truth in making herself up out of stories and she was damned fucking insistent that she'd carry it through and figure out what it meant.
The first step was to excise the guy. Which meant smashing a good deal of his record collection. She grabbed a handful, compressed to lift them out from the milk crate storage like a gripper claw in those arcade games. Her over extended grip let two or three slip. They fell nicely to the floor and flopped around. It was a good start. With space in the crate, she next grabbed a particularly hip looking record and holding either side of it broke it over her knee. She stopped momentarily to think if she had ever broken anything over her knee. She hadn't. It was a satisfying feeling. It was a feeling of full success as the record crisped in half and the cardboard broke and bent. But also satisfying because it validated the tale telling of culture itself. Without ever having crazily shattered records, she already knew the best way to do it. Culture worked. It had taught her through unknown routes how to destroy effectively and efficiently. Next she tried to crack one using just her hands. No luck. So the knee again. So smart that culture of hers.
He'd come home in the midst of it and write it into his own legend of the psycho ex girlfriend. It'd look just like every movie where clothes go flying out of the window to the plaintive guy on the street. But they lived in a terrible little duplex with paper thin walls. On the ground floor nothing could be so grandiose. And this is why Violet knew she had to get out. Her own version of things coped perfectly well with reality. But reality included a lot of stories, even his grandiose ones. It was just the way he got caught up in them that upset her. So she had to get out. Even if the reason bespoke a flaw in her own system. She needed the space to rework the system. Oh well. She went on breaking records. Until it got monotonous and then she picked a last couple good ones and headed out.
_____________
He hadn't come storming in before she left. So that fucked that up. She hit the streets on foot. She'd left everything but a quick packed backpack over her shoulder. She walked downtown, which in this shabby burg was something like a quaint little main street. There were only the first terrible signs of self-consciously gilt charm. A shop here or there realized that soon this little strip would be pulsing with a inward turning nostalgia for a by gone era. What there era was nobody could be sure. Anything but strip malls seemed like the obvious answer. But more than that it was anything but the planned shopping complex that wasn't even an obviously odious as the strip mall. Violet sensed a time not far away when the strip mall itself would have a special charm as it became outmoded.
But no, the downtown wasn't quite self-aware yet. It was still peopled by busted down trophy shops and cold meat stores. A leather work shop and a cobbler/dry cleaner tandem. They were shops that had some realer seeming charm for not having anything to do with a visual aesthetic. They were all shops that were manned by someone of a specific knowledge, nearly a trade. Most of the time people wouldn't be in the shops at all. There wasn't a thing in them that let onto browsing. You'd only ever come by with a specific needs. And they'd fill that service for you. But now she was nostalgic for the present that was right in front of her, sad to know that it must be collapsing, that it was already an anomaly and not one that other people saw as fittingly charming to maintain. She made herself pukey. She was just as god damned caught up in these stories as anybody and not quite on the leading edge she kept telling herself she was. She'd have to sort it all out somewhere. Somewhere where she could think. But where could she get that was to the side of the problem instead of in the heart of it?
She was aimless. In a sort of fugue space. Absent of motivation she let herself be guided by her feet in big blocky motions. Her pacing becomes a blur and then a quick invisibility. If she was only ever the stories that could be told about her and now she was alone in a street without a motive, she must of necessity disappear. No reason to think that she hadn't. When someone else walked on the street tho, she had to reappear someone. Still she's not much more than a blocky set of colors, black hair, leather bag, whatever color clothing she happens to be wearing. This was always the sort of encounter that had troubled her because she had no idea what image she would strike. Not that she'd ever been able—or ever desired—to completely control the impressions she made on people. But she liked having been the root cause of it. And sure she could pick her clothes and her hair color or whatever, but that wasn't the same as having planted some wisp of history to articulate her every motion. Thus far in life, she'd been able to thread a connection through her social field that still maintain those faint lines of flight from her earliest decision. It was a virtuoso effort even. Finding little links to make the connections. Fanning flames of the littlest knowledge.
[Some quick discussion of this story's plot: Violet breaks with her own life in an attempt to understand a narrative/composite identity. The story becomes a story of stories. She tells made up tales of her own past in an attempt to implode her own identity. Scenes of her at parties, in the library, sitting out at parks. A tour of a small town as seen by a women evading/creating her own life. The end game has to be that she ride some edge of narrative, self-propelled. Which, you know, none of this makes any sense. The things I'm looking to get at are: non-identical self-identity and maybe thats it.]
Sitting long enough, Violet started to come into herself again. Only because she had started telling herself stories again. I'm sitting here on a park bench. My ass on the top of the back rest. I'm surveying the community fountain that something between bad public art and nice real public space. I'm looking like a badass, a badegg. I'm scowling at old ladies and middle aged ladies with their young pups as they walk by. They see me as the quiet loner type. Someone daddy never loved enough. They even see a black eye that isn't there from a guy that couldn't beat me up if he tried. They think I'm a sweet little poison keeps putting herself in harms way when really its harm that keeps putting itself in my way and getting the raw end of the deal, ending up with its own black eyes and broken records.
The park was cast out before her, not much more than a few lolling grass hills and a soccer field giving away to an unincorporated brown hillside that rose steeply for what had to be two hundred feet. The sky was high gray clouds that wouldn't do a thing. They weren't even distinct clouds that you could imagine floating past, just a big mass coating the upper atmosphere. Not threatening rain. Maybe they'd break, allow a little fissure of blue. Or maybe they wouldn't.
I'm a stealth object. Light comes off of me in big glancing blocks, like a rough cut diamond. People seeing some single feature of me can only manage a quick reference to something they already know. And in that second I can slide through them. I'll transmute to whatever is required of me to slip past.
_________
Where'd you ever get pretending you were who you woke up being? Being embodied doesn't mean you have to be self-identical. She saw one part of her as a thread and another part of her as this scrap heap of fabrics. The thread, probably with a needle at the helm, but that didn't matter, kept looping in more and different pieces of fabric. Sometimes a nice neat row of stitches. Sometimes less so. Sometimes just a single time through, or just the thread tied into knots around itself. It was a fucking mess. A serious and intractable fucking mess. And so the question was always put, are you the fabric or the thread? Are you the active and conscious act of stitching or what is stitched? And what a bullshit question that is. You're both right? I mean, I guess, the metaphor might even be too lame to really work. It still makes you think you've got an outside you picking where to stitch, a piece of thread that even if tangled up still has some linear continuity that is always and forever trackable in some real and true way.
Just now on the bench, hadn't she totally fugued? Aren't their cases all of the fucking time where people stop being themselves? And doesn't that mean that some piece of continuous thread isn't essential? Not even just in outliers but in all of us? Aren't there times with the social fabric is the thing itself that allows you to patch in and make connections.
Here, how the fuck about this for a metaphor: We're still made up of all this fabric, but instead of a nice piece of thread holding it in line, its held together through whatever available adhesive materials. Most of the time you've got these staples maybe. And maybe other times its duct tape and it gets all gooey with that backing glue. Some lucky and deluded fuck might see it as a nice long piece of thread. But at some point you have to admit that you were lent a stitch here and there. So yeah, I think the idea of a stitching action holds up. I remember plenty of things. I see myself in the light of past things I've been. It isn't just like I woke up today in a vacuum. But it also isn't that I have to be anything like I was yesterday. How could it be? I don't even care about yesterday.
But I guess the question remains, if posed at all directly, who am I? I don't have a good and clean answer. And maybe that's cause the concept itself is wrong. I. It implies too many things I'm not sure I agree with. And called to answer in the terms of I, I have to swallow too many of those things even before I can formulate an answer. And I don't think its either me or society. I don't think anything is so simple that I can erect a fence and talk about the things on either side of it. Or maybe I can for a second, but that's just in my head and I can't pretend the divide exists even a moment later.
There is a me sometimes that lives in this body. And there is a big old society sometimes too. And then there are little mobilized societies as well. And even mobilized fragments of me that drive the "whole." Fuck if it isn't a complicated mess through and through.
__________
After all the record breaking she felt like things were all set to collapse around her. It was a feeling that permeated her. She set up a world of stories around her, set it delicately and expertly. At one point it'd appeared as this perfectly structured edifice which she could traverse with ease. In high school it'd been easy to read people enough by their social position, usually grafted onto the physical environs of the schoolspace. She'd know in advance who knew would know what about her and how they'd likely heard it. And she could shift herself a little left or right to fill just such a role to its best advantage—usually the advantage was a form of disappearing, but every once in awhile it had more active benefits. Her troubled girlhood—fictional—had allowed her to do a lot of subtle bullying—actual—that allowed her to get things she wanted. The bullying was so subtle tho that her lived experience of it wasn't much different than asking for things she wanted and receiving them. In the background, the stories that floated around determined people's reactions to her desires. Like a hulking shadow the stories animated all of her scenes without any new input from her.
That was awhile ago at this point tho. And she felt the topple coming. The social scene of the high school years guaranteed that there would be a certain large percentage of people who didn't care at all about you. They provided a buffer for her stories, an insulation that ensured certain elements would pass through and others stop all without adding any additional charge. Now tho, the social world was smaller. It'd hit a critical mass of knowledge eventually—now—where there would no longer be enough space to perpetuate absolute variants of truth. Some actual was bound to sneak it if only in the cross waves of two falsities colliding. She'd appear at some point when she'd intend to disappear.
But she was a master. And she had felt the collapse before it came. So she had a chance to plan. And tho the opportunity presented a very limited set of options. She could nonetheless choose. Perhaps it was even reduced to a binary. She could stand still in the middle and watch the collapse around her. Flash into existence in the middle of things and watch as people reacted to the newly formed girl in their midst. Or catch the crashing wave of her own life and ride it out for as long it would go, clinging always to the very edge of the collapse and its little tailings all the while invisibly and elegantly sliding past. Certainly there had to be gradients between the poles, so not a binary at all. But she wasn't one for the half assed. Both had a certain charm about them, but of course she'd choose the latter and end up alone down the road somewhere chewing a stick of gum and thumbing a ride to somewhere else. And maybe there'd even be some faint little drift that would pass her on into the next world without there ever really having been a collapse at all.
_________
At a party that night that she went to because a friend of hers had insisted that the only thing a person can do post break-up is attend some sort of soirée and do one's damnedest to get fawned over and then either laid or to get to enjoyably send someone packing. Violet hadn't a notion for any of that in the slightest and felt instead like she was walking into some crucial scene in her young adult life in which she'd lay the ground work for what it would mean for her to be an adult. Ideally it meant the same life and the same thoughts, but she felt it a trial at which any outcome could avail itself. Her friend, this is the stranger bit, she didn't know what to do with friends anymore. There was this nosy insistence in friends that dug into you as if you weren't the image you projected. It was this natural assumption that you're a liar and that a friend's place is to get inside of the lies. As Violet was a liar par excellence, the friend position became mostly untenable. This isn't to say that Violet was needfully defensive of her close kept lies, that a driving friend could so easily puncture them and cause her system to collapse. No. Violet was no charade in the usual sense. What bothered her about friends was the assumption of lying as friendships default state. This assumption made Violet's extravagant story-life seem like the paltry stuff of everyday life. In a sense sure, people lie all the time. And Violet lied all the time. But the lies were constructive, intentional, planned and processed. It wasn't an issue of quantity. Not ever shifts in order of magnitude. It was about kind. She made up her life. She didn't fiddle around with social masks in some vain effort to gain attention or avoid people. Her life was the nexus point of telling and told. She lived on that cusp.
So this party. Bullshit right? Absolutely. But it was also like a land mine long buried in a forgotten plain rusting away unnoticed until one day the trigger fails even without a passing pressure and the place goes up. While statistics say that's the best option, nobody'll get hurt. We all know better. That really the damned thing couldn't snap until there was some appropriate density of awful it could do cause for awful it was made. And like a rifle in the first act, you can't avoid setting off a round. But now, we're deep in and need to telescope out. Like a rifle it's got to go off, that's its purpose. Like an old land mine, it'd been waiting a long time and was bound for badness. So Violet walks in the door, separate from this friend who'd meet her because Violet was already at the edge of certainty when it came to friends in this world. And first thing she sees is the ex. Talking with, of course, the first ex at the start of the whole game, who, crept up out of some corner just for such an occasion when shit had to go down. This is what parties are for tho in small home towns that you never leave; they stir the primordial ooze to test our new combinations, rile up old enmities.
"It's a fucking travesty" she says out loud. The whole place is a stage set to test or break her. Seems everyone she'd ever known was there. The normal stratification and calcification of eras and old friendship was all broke up and muddled in this final scene. And who'd stirred all the shit up? Marren, a vain louse with what passed for a hip pad because it had enough space out of doors to always have a fire going, which still somehow at this late day still meant hip. For Marren, it must have been an issue of pride codifying so many social layers. Or if not codifying precisely, temporarily suspending in the same place the diversity and array of the entire town and its history as far as it can be said to have either. Which it can't. Instead it was like a high school party from any film, but achingly and longingly so. Everyone was there to be filmed. Everyone was appreciating the moments that whirled past them as still images that could be reproduced when direct access was so clearly cut off. Marren glowered always in the center. Propriety gets you that. Landed gentry.
Violet, a nomad, set to snaking through the place and getting plowed. She was at once essence and antithesis of the scene. A towering force that went unseen. And truth told she did. She hadn't been recognized by a soul yet through her particular powers of knowing just when to weave and fade into various groups. Even in a town where everyone knew everyone you could still count on people's quick forgetting, at least when it came to faces. She'd dodge someone she'd really known by temporarily hovering at the border of a group in the midst of some conversation about shark activity off the cliff scarring or not scaring local surfers. They'd all know her by her stories, but not a one by her face since none of them had shared a room since elementary.
"The chop is rough right now anyways. We've got a temporary rip off North Heights. There's not a shark in the waters. It's all machismo talk. The surf is shit and no one gets a wave; sharks are in these waters. Bullshit is all."
And off she went unrecognized to grab another drink and pound it back. She was gaining bravado for a virtuoso performance she was planning in her head. Her goal tonight was to touch off a final scene that would produce her as completely insane on one hand and a local hero on the other. She sought to divide herself and the room into those who thought her an agent of chaos and those who thought her contrarily as a degraded object of chaos. The difference was fine. She was happy to have the entire world thinking she was part of the insane, decaying and entropic universe. What mattered to her now—and this only as a sort of send off to be done with this town—was to separate those who could embrace the chaotic and rebellious from those who must tyrannically hold the world together and condemn the chaotic.
There was a certain joy in imagining friends divided over the issue of herself. Not that she expected anyone to really care in the long run. She simply liked the idea of the rift, even a minute temporary fissure in the fabric of these lives.
The how made use of the real explosion earlier in the day. She usually like to work with total lies; the whole cloth kept real details for getting mixed up in the crafted elements. Her identity was never defined by the mundane in her life; she expelled it for the narrative. She was working with something brand new now. She would set the real story out there with just the right person and in pressure waves around the room enact new moments of the story in progress as the story is told again. She would distort in real time with real acts. She imagined this would mean perhaps first a screaming fit in the face of the ex. Then maybe she would have to through a drink. After that real things would have to break, bottle, glasses, she'd probably have to shove someone over. Then it would really be loosed into chaos and she would have to react in true real time. Would it be best to through someone into the pool? To shatter a window? Maybe she could slash someone's tires? In the end she knew simply she had to let go and swing as the moment swayed her. And she was ready.
Pounding another drink, she made her way ex-ward.
___________
[climactic bits]
It progresses outside of her in such an interesting way. She's an embodied, fully embodied, being swinging with the movement all around her, part hers, part everyone else's. She acknowledge the mutual creation, the collective enactment. She's ad-libbing the whole thing. She's punched her ex in the fact, which was the starter. The tide was much higher than she'd imagined when it was all only thought.
Her embodiment was all that occupied her as she swung and after he fell—he fell hard and knocked his head. No blood from the head hit, but from his cheek. Her fist throbbed and for a second that was the center of her. But then her center was elsewhere, more expansive. She was only her, but that didn't seem to be the crucial thing. That was the room and the people in it. Her fist had been a proximal center for the entire room—perhaps the ex's face. But she was aware of these things both as herself and as herself within this context of people.
She might have found it odd that only sheer violence had allowed her to feel at one with the people surrounding her at the party. But it was a curious oneness anyways, so why not a curious entrance into it? She saw with profound clarity the way it all worked. She was alive in all that was around her, in this moment and in all the rest. She had activated a network that was a brand new configuration and articulation. She and all of them. She wasn't the only initiator, such a thing would be patently and definitionally impossible. She wasn't the creator or the master. But she was an adept orchestor. She could weave and spin the room. She could float and curl amongst all the very real talk and tale. And now, crucially, she had entwined the bodily and the story. She'd tied a knot in the midst of her own narrative. No one could even conceive of her from now on without this dense moment and from it she would craft the tailing wisps she'd ride out of here forever.
He was cursing on the floor sort of curled up against the couch more like a drunk in an alleyway than a boxer on the ropes. Violet was being held bodily by one of two guys that were trying to balance restraining her and gauging her level of danger. For a second she was in the pocket of her own consciousness again, enjoying the fact that she had this extra bit of hiddenness amidst the spectacle. For everyone else in the room she could only be made sense of in terms of her most recent action—a seemingly unprovoked assault. Some of them would begin to use various bits of knowledge to set and place her. But for now it was a shattered instant in the social world and only she could be tucked away in her own head with any reasonable sense of what would happen next.
And what would? She hadn't decided because she was unsure what we left open to her. She wanted to escalate the myth of herself into a more interesting perspective. The shattering violence had been essential for establishing the stage, but it wasn't articulate enough to develop into a narrative without something more spectacular. She thought about plotting a love child or an abortion, or just plain old cheating hearts. But she wasn't interested in soap opera shit. She was looking for myth, for the pure figure that eclipses paltry sub-plots and becomes the generator of narrative itself.
At some point she decided regardless of what else she had to through a bottle through a window. If for no other reason than the pure experience of joy. And finally it was decided that it would have to be a speech punctuated by whatever breaking of physical objects struck her fancy. She'd decided to forego any further harm to people, sensing that she could maintain the room and her own free space only if she didn't seem to pose any more of a bodily threat.
"Fuck you. Oh good people. Fuck you. Fuck Michael. Fuck your gracious hostess. Fuck this goddamned town and its fucking squared off corners.
I came here tonight to beat some sense into the lot of you. You're all boring as shit. You're all pieces of absolute death and boredom. You're alone. You're aliens. You're the worthless and dregs.
Only you're not going to stay that way. Because I've delivered you from your mired shit. I've broken your sad little collage or drinking and gossiping." Grabbing a bottle she hurled it through the kitchen window adjacent. A worried guy half-heartedly grabbed her upper arm and she shook him off. A little din rose in response. "Shut the fuck up. I'm versifying at you all."
"I'm leaving town. Tonight. Drunk as I am. I'm going to catch a freighter and tour the fucking world. I'm going to catch a way and die on the rocks like all good sinners. I'm tired of your faces, but I'll leave you the spark of life. I know the secrets of the whole fucking world and I'll happily share them with you just to have you shut the fuck up." Silence again reigned and she shoved the entire contents of the counter onto the floor. Glass bottles of booze shattered on the sad linoleum floor.
{&c &c &c}
"I'll tell you story before I go. And you'll listen or else." The crowd's mood was unclear at this threat. The room seemed to perceive both her fury and her weakness. She might have looking a shaking little girl. Or a trapped, wet and rabid rat. It wasn't pretty in any case. The romantic swing it had in her head didn't translate from other available perspectives. Not that any of that undercut her sense of it. And tho she wasn't hiding anything or deceiving them in any strict sense—she was generally in sync with all the attitudes she was conveying, and breaking bottles was killer fun—there was a part of her that none of them were seeing, the part that calculated and perceived. And parts of her perceived this perception and its hiddenness. And she could have looped there forever if there was an reason to. But by her figuring she was at such a point in wreaking havoc on these poor souls that they'd now hear the truth of even that differently. And maybe that was the point of all this: some fucked up vision of utopian community.
"I'm a put on and show. In some strictly real sense there isn't a one of you that has ever met me. And in that same strictly real sense, I might only have a leg up on you all about even myself, not ever having met a self myself. Thing is you every one have your own me that you and me and the rest of us all built up. I'd like to think I had some hand in it. Not that it matters."
"What matters is that I am the force that has spun this town up into anything. I've had my hands in every honey pot. I've pissed on every party. I'm intractable. I'm in your blood and bones. I'm a cancer that will eat away at your lonely little selves until you're huddled together somewhere very much like nice. A naked mass of sad bodies sobbing into each other. I've shat you out and up come daisies."
"I'll dance." She does and awkward and jerky dance, her arms held out with a weak limpness, fragile shakes etching contours in her side to side sway. "And I'll crash my way out of your fucking nobody lives until you're all stripped bare and it's just me dancing that you can even form into a solid picture any more. I'll be the image and the ecstasy of your every thought, the apotheosis of your ability to form coherent thoughts. Remember me just like this, shouting and fucking and breaking shit and dancing an awkward jig."
"They say the devil dances while he eats up souls. And shits the soil healthy again. So up yon bitches and cry."
[Worst thing I've ever written or marginally inspired? Likely the former.]
