09.10.03 - 1:48 p.m.

i dont see my own death in flashes anymore
but his, when walking in front of a city bus
sighing to a stop in a blinding instant he is
underfoot and i am pounding on the wide white face,
when rounding corners slowly in the car past
seedy people his head gushes, the windshield is
dripping red and i look back at an outstretched arm, a cackle
as we spin out of control. and when i squeeze
his hand, when i grasp his arm more tightly or
kiss his shoulder how can i answer his what?
theres no way to say honey ive just imagined your
murder, but you neednt worry; thats how i know i love you.

quentin tarantino directs my hallucinations on the side
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the project museum

the revolution will be catalogued

this american life

the library of congress

i used to believe







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