Phantasmagoria.

I am stumbling up a flight of stairs.

Or maybe, maybe I am the stairs and some drunken asshole is stuggling to tread on me, thread by me; naysay my existence like he has a thousand times before. I’m only recognized when I’m an obstacle.

Or maybe, maybe I am the brown haired girl holding him steady, watching his acetone tears burn streaks of agony across a world weathered face tethered to hopelessness before its time.

Time time
maybe I am time, tick tocking, pocket picking the universe of its pinnacle highs and lows with papershredder in-betweens.

Or maybe, maybe I am the dream of her that caused this fucking mess in the first place.

Emporium of worrysome holdovers.

Phantasmagoria is the only recourse
of solar systems on the brink
of supernova.


Willie Watt

9/15/14

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