Fundamentally burned were the once flaming hearts, for passion became an excuse rather than pure fuel.

Utah was last. All the other cities were vivian black in soul, experiential dust and ashes in practice. But Utah, it resisted. And when Elise and I arrived at the nameless fast-food shop and saw the impossible couple in a whimsically hazy ritual, it seemed that love would be the ultimate healer. Eventually we realized, not after a few seconds of awe, how stupid of an idea that was. I took my unweeping knife, made fully of neurons and reason, and killed them both.

Just kidding. We kept the sister, Tessa, as a hostage. Left my body to fuse with Utah’s fate. Mine is a monopoly, I said, and monopoly is one.

“Whatever you think this is, that’s a lie”, Tessa protested in teenage fashion. The feeling was not mutual, but the idea was. Anyways, we put her on sedatives. And for the record, I didn’t kill Tessa only because Elise opposed. I was curious on why, but so lost in Utah’s figure. The fiction balsamo, the vibe’s coercion, the souls unbreakable. Latter was us.

Who’s responsible? Why, hello there. I believe. Rockety risky business. Forward, it is. Corrosion devours. Make me a clones. Give us a tons of clones. Duplicate my soul. Triumph of a cause. Needs to. Did I met you? Have we ever met, Ollie?

Do I know you, I think to ask. When the hamburgers taste of a frivolous rush, that’s where I belong. Would, I, shower you of questions. You, mine, the longest of longs. I’m using my lungs to write you love songs. Fond of you. I am fond of you. I admire you. I would so ravage to adore you.

North american skies. Almost. Why, oh well. Dang, a flash of… what? I envision of the iconic and everlasting haze of us. The kind of haze that wasn’t, but whose ideal nature is so strong that, even if unreal, I feel it. I have feelings for our times.

So now I remind myself of the letters I wrote, but never sent. For I was addressing them to a mind-archived you. It wasn’t really you. Yet it fucking was.

So I remind myself of your unkowningness of english. To think, to imagine, to fantasize of me being a teacher of yours. Just if. My lack of teaching skills all displayed in ambivalent fashion to the you. The you, as only and─(!!!)─special.

Mine is a fight for the basic principles, for decency. And you, oh darling. You have changed my life, oh yea, oh yeah-ah. Let’s leave behind bad memories, vamos a jugar.

“Childish”, I assume to hear from you. I never understood you. Did you? Don’t think you even took a chance to. Well I was wrong all along about you. You see, the distance between who we were and what we’re now can make funny things to memory. I don’t care. You don’t care. It’s ok. I’m over you. I just have sudden seldom parodies of collapses. For I’ve been waiting for you.

It wasn’t you. Sad, it seems now. But not for long. If it was you, you would have waited for me.

Not you.

Me.

“So yea.” Jake added, “All my whereabouts were lost and, we assume, forgiven. Then, a jubilee of clouds gave an uprising welcome to few of solar rays. It swung very retro, vintage metro, veil electro. That’s my recall, anyways”.

Jake Landa, an average-looking highschool boy, in a room with two men in suits. The room was hella hobo. Mid-on lights and flickering ones hanging from above. Discoloured velvet fabrics of red and green and blue governed the dissonant vibes.

“Huh”, one suit finally mumbled.

“All I do is translate”, Jake continued. “What I’m reading certainly makes no sense. I sense pretentious, hence I’m anxious to help in any way. So what d’you say?”.
Jake was reading from a pile of letters the suits gave him. There had been some amateur car bombings.

Of dirty maniacs. Of homeless bastards. Of vapid sperma post-hate.

I’ve read the tales of bloodful warriors, those who embraced infamy and creamed joy. My aims differ, but for the most part I did believe the shot was genuine. As appointments disappear, I rediscover there’s only “us by me”.

Blue halo, golden rage. Mellow grin, high hopes. What did you do to your face? What did you do to our haze?

Dirt, dirt, the dirtiest and flames. Under an elegant firmament, or under a ceiling of rust of the bad kind? Rust’s a witness; and the fume is of abominable… ugh.

In you I trusted. The chance is lost.

Her wings entangling. Juvenile of the week, anti-rage & anti-nymph.
Or maybe not. As whatever: the influx’s done.
For all the things that I’ve done.

Besides, I still love you.

Cristal is the victim. She wore that tag every friday night, wednesday afternoon, thursday light round pixel aura borealis.
“It’s always the other way ’round”, a woman in the room says.
He tries to process her words. Fails.
“The men-wom thing”, she adds. “you’re either a king or a slut, either the irresistible or repulsion”.
King of a slut, he thinks. Servant of lust.
“She reminds me of my virginity”, he finally speaks.
“Aren’t you married?”, the woman reminds him, her eyebrows heightened.
“Yeah. I mean, I haven’t slept with the victim. I’m Cristal-virgin.”

The kitchen is were evil mesmerized last night. Fragments of glass like sharp icebergs and fragments of Cristal’s womanhood can be found even by the blind.
“She was into little kids” reads the woman detective.
A children-maker grooming children, he mumbles.
“The offender-victim started therapy a week ago”, the woman keeps dazzling at it all.
“Well,” he stretches his arms, “it takes an army to be kind. See ya tomorrow.”
“What will you do?” the woman detective asks.
“Jerk off to Cristal, for the last time. Have a cup of tea and watch TV”, but instead he proudly says “Jubilee”.