Confusion is sex

http://www.lewislacook.org/xanaxpop/

After I kill the President, the Boys come home from the desert. They're thirsty, and it's not a liquid thirst. Sunshine repaints the windows every morning around this time, but the Boys seem morose somehow: they're waiting for something. They shovel hot new food into themselves, wrapping their arms around their plates to insure proper delivery.

My hair dries out in the heat, so I have to condition–loudly. Tid-bits of information dribble from the scimitar curl of their lips. Mary is careful to point out the differences between data and information: information is data in context. She learned this in school. Because I'm suspicious of everything I've been taught, I appear not to listen. Appear.

I'm so fucking sick of words and definitions, of taxonomies and discrimination. Mary is learning how to wander. The way is shocking sometimes, in its method of detachment. The Boys, too, seem adroitly adrift, as if, exhausting themselves akin to drowning, they'd drained their personalities too. But Mary knows where we're going. The first moment out of the shower, when the air hits you.




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