And so it Begins.

2.


Made for explosive situations. Kevlar. Things which are veteran to some, and breakthrough to others. The mad rampage of instruments in Billy’s head, as he cites his angry versions of self, crouched in apparition, rain slicker open, inviting the sea. The same alley where ... (but the dog departed) and the fish small and headless lingers, for those who seek/goad the release of time. I watch billy become sequentially drenched by passing flourished rains, individual drops spatter on pavement wearing rainbows of fossil fuel use, fracturing into small bits, as we will. Stunning women who’ve thought excessively over their facets, trundle by laden with shopping bags, turning with pity meets horror to Billy, whose rants awaken them. I wonder how much the streaks in her hair (coloring) cost, and if they deigned its fade to the coming tan, from the savage electric salon. One almost thought, here’s the real goddess, straight from the wilds of a tropical paradise. A disorienting stretch of minutes ensued, where each person’s appearance spoke the ravings of multiple personality disorders. Billy was the crooked, stretched madhouse mirror alms paid conscious entrance to.


What protects us: the moats we dig and fortify in subsequent walls, with slits for sniping the siege engines of people’s greed ... you are protecting, what I want. I don’t’ even know what it is. Life is a prefabricated silence the soul struggles to shout across, attempting to awaken the heat of the passion suffering feels as we force ourselves upon the stakes fires’ din to kindle us in. It has stopped raining, compared to rain of the instant before, and billy receives two dollars for his troubles, or general state of exposure. His selves gather at the fire monies elicit, and congeal into a heartfelt smile, followed by a damp cig–arette, to spatter them again.


How many pieces of him are angry they’re wet?


Pies divine their appreciators by the number of slices they serve, if they’re a asset to the taste buds. How many wives will Don Giovanni wet? It was seven to two in the afternoon, and all the mental giants dreamed of, was a coffee, and a paper to fear, filled with impossible stories. Smokers shortened their lifetimes outside, twenty paces from Billy’s diagnosis the world is fucked, breathing slowly in, and out. The whole place was disgruntled, and die-hard, gird in weapons to alarm others, and broken within themselves, thirsting with freedom and adventures. Hey you. "What?" Did that guy say something to me? "Don’ know; meybee ..." Meanwhile, steaming Billy hit three jackpots in prey, with his best craziness ... "That’s the suffering of profit." As authenticity is the act of artists frog-stepping their roles into life. "I seriously doubt he thinks he’s doing well." Neither did the suffering artists who later generations glorified, in their stubborn efforts to resist the comfort of the known. [Artists–shmartists.] An artist is anyone with a vision beyond the known, who attempts to manifest it; this alleyway between high buildings, is inhabited by persons of all disciplines and opportunistic occasions or concerns. The dirt Billy’s lying in, is the river’s offering. It is truly the magic occult of ‘the delta’, where those driven by profit vainly attempt a harness of the divine; damning is moating; effect minus versa breeds vice in paychecks’ garnered; suffering collides strife with physical idioms, as it of the ‘I’ suffocates a very-metaphor reality, we term ‘our world’. "That’s nice, did you manufacture that beforehand, or dish it out writhing for me?" The latter I think; but knowing little of time travel, I could have been quoting.