Sometime in 1999

I don’t want to look; I fight the unconscious need to turn my head and gaze at one of the most sexy sights I have ever seen. I busy my mind with lost moments. Fifteen bux and my four years of love, sold in the shape of a small metal circle. 

A grotesque man sits masturbating secretly behind a newspaper. These are the last days of the real New Orleans, it’s apocalypse is soon to come. Now, it is life or death.

I look over again, something stirs inside. I fight with the conviction of a warrior. The empty space between us seems vast and dangerous. If she doesn’t cross, I won’t. That space is full with the expanse of years of waste, confusion and pain. It will not touch me, it only goes so deep. 

I have cleansed myself in the oratory of will. There has never been love. Never been unity. Never been sex. I am a virgin and I am a whore! 

My mantra rings throughout my thought, ‘you stand alone, you need no one.’

Words attempted to make an understanding with the unknown past lost unto itself. I have the paper of study crinkled and I look once more. The fight rages on, I remember even with a black eye and a cut scarred face that I hold the power to manipulate events governing my life, in this hollow picture. I paint…

Refuse… Another fight!

I look into the that barren waste between her and I. It’s demonic tendrils are black, swirling, life drain folding in on itself. Unholy razors slice into any attempt to cross the barren void of a broken man. No one exists, they all disappear. I sit alone, as if the world has been erased. They are all illusions in a mere blink of an eye.

One illusion passes as another stays. It is of no matter.  But, she still catches my attention, it is of no matter. My weakness to gaze on beauty is foolish. 

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