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Meat
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Dear Meat Pants,
It's so hard to have any kind of attention span these days. Breathing war without being able to see it, trailing a litter of reciepts and wondering, have I been a citizen today? Have you noticed a compulsive quality to the way that dust collects around your fingers when you're not buying things-I'm pretty sure it gathers according to some kind of system. I'll radio it in, just in case I'm ON TO SOMETHING. One thing we train for here is to notice tiny systems, which is why I have adopted as my current motto, "if it looks like dust, it might be the enemy." There's something ancient about that. Of course, it could be our dust system, too. You never know when you're playing against yourself. You know, Meat Pants, I'd say you were my flesh prop, the thing behind me in the mirror, but I can't look in the mirror. I'm pure point of view. Have I mentioned that I haven't got a body yet? What I DO have is bar of beef on the side of the screen that indicates my strength. So, ha, yay for me! AND I can make the marks a body makes! Footprint. Sound of breathing. Footprint. Remember when I had hands? That one day on the shooting range. I was the space in front of you, and you billowed out behind me like a nice and meaty brain. Your compulsive behaviors are actually adorable to me. Hunched over the keyboard, movements becoming automatic. I like it best when you just go and go into the screen where we meet, comingle. Don't laugh! You hurt my information body, anxious little artifact, and then I can't even keep this breathy syntax going. Do you have a body you can stash me in? I want to go go go in and out/rapid-fire breathing /dodge adagio and all for you, Meat Pants. I don't even know if I can die. I think I might be war. I never sleep. I just wait for you to log on and play me so we have SERIOUSLY got to get together one of these days, and I don't just mean your fingers, my p.o.v. Because sometimes, Meat Pants, when you're on the keys, my mouth surrounds me and I just begin to sing. Tra la la, Zero |
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