HOW THINGS DISAPPEAR,
OR APPEAR TO
Steamboy wants industrial punk, or at least he says
he tends to. He eats a peach. He drinks a scotch. He
nods to sleep on a belly bar. No one knows what
exactly to do with him. Red jacket and blue hat.
-
I never see the horizon, or it's always moving ahead
of me, out, towards the horizon. I run sideways along
it - that way it's always the same? How funny that
we make these deals with ourselves. I hear a little
kid screaming; like nails on a blackboard to me.
-
Put them away - all of them. The ghosts and the
schemers, the fakes and the screamers. All. My toast
is finished on this one side. The butter is melting
through. I don't know what to do.
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