Half Life

︎︎︎ David San Miguel

︎ May 30, 2024

Last night we let the tweaker talk. A stop motion reel of disregarded sufferings played in chronological order. Between the flickers, the hands of god maneuvered each affair from out of frame. When it ended, so did we. The sound of dead air was raised to a higher pitch. A frequency only animals can register. Tabula rasa. Nothing was ever going to happen again. In some dilapidated building we lathered each other in amniotic fluid. We anticipated valhalla, praying for rebirth, oblivion had made itself at home, overstaying its welcome. The place was overgrown with creepers and black mold. We lived like that. Our vacancies preceded us. Desire assumed the form of a long exposure. It filled the space. Happiness was just a part of it. It was one face on a tesseract but there were so many more. There used to be so much more.

David San Miguel (@dogvilled) is a writer in Los Angeles.

Also by David: Blind Action