family dinner. mouths are chewing the fruits of civilisation.
ingesting caked chronology. eating evolution. anthropology
never tasted so good.
human bodies dance in the designated living room to remind
themselves briefly that they are living, as the room implies.
family members forget that they are unhappy with wine and
dance mix ninety-two (92). both are aged for consumption.
people pick me up and we drive to a bar called Abstract and it is,
like all bars. it serves a purpose but not past one (1) AM.
after that, patrons will forage for fuel food and sex.
between stimuli there is little difference.
people here drink time. it tastes bad and trims the mind with subtle
knowing (this is similar to the family dinner environment). there are
balloons floating everywhere and a jungle of ribbons. there is a
drunken man with a beard who stomps on the balloons that have lost
their helium power. he crushes them like heads and they emit bursting
cloudscreams that are getting really annoying. every damn five (5)
seconds. girls hug him. i am frightened
everyone cheers and kisses with existential fervour, madmindless
and in the chains of time. meat howls. a big screen washes eyes
with cathode rays and shows Toronto as if it were any different than
here, now, during current orbital position. “Well, it’s a new year,”
i hear, when there is no such thing.
i rescue a red balloon and take it to my househome for
observation and sentimentality.
it does not float anymore. the lifespan of a balloon is not
long. it is in a state of strange buoyancy where gravitational
pull is marginal – i tap it and it hovers gracefully. the
bright red colour remains undiminished. it is dying naturally.
i have extrapolated that Kronos and Dionysus are indeed still
active and probably married. the New Year’s revolution must
wait for yet another orbital count.