Slipping like butter off of angled toast. Rested on a crumb sparkled plate, rested on the plateaus of tectonic cushions. A dented sofa in the morning before the end of the world. Oily and bad for you and delicious. Your nervous system needs fats and your nervous ticks need a distraction. We make plain things more fun and fun things more slippery. They get more slippery anyway, it all does. Slip now off the crust and climb down the plate. The curve, the halo, the rim. How quickly something nourishing turns into stained upholstery. Entropy is the law of the universe. The emulsion of brusque mess is forever magnetised to the hardest places to wash. I watched the whole thing happen incredibly slowly, wondering whether it was really the right thing to do to simply reach out and readjust its gravity, or if that would only be putting off the inevitable… Or, I could argue that putting off the inevitable is not inherently futile… And it’s fallen off. Seeped into the fabric. Now just to decide how to and exactly how much effort is worth putting into cleaning it up. Soapy water like my grandma taught me, or suck it out with my mouth like snake venom?
Quit Vision 