now (the perfect fit, by the Dresden Dolls)
Now. Now we are. Now we’re here. And funny stories. That keep coming. Porn on my computer. The Perfect Fit, by Dresden Girls, and a new girl, old girl, old friend, and shopping, endless shopping, series of screens, flashing before my eyes, the quickness flutter paints the illusion of motion — I use to be the bright one, smart as a whip, the song sings — I use to be the tight one — the perfect fit — something else – to be, someone else — wasps listening softly the changing world around them — the Wikipedia Review, the Annotated Dance, the words, the wrongs, the little experiments, the secret plans, a woman, a man, a tree, sun-clad, light-clad, smiles, and giggles, and —
Time. Time. Time.
How does it keep happening? The illusion of motion.
Meon. Non-being. The lacuna. What we owe the unknowable other. We only take it on faith. And we are always other to ourselves. Past selves. Future selves. The me who smokes the cigarette now slays slowly the other me who I don’t yet know, but one day will — and to think, I once laid there on a pallet in Greensboro before Elsewhere existed, next to her, my friend, and did not know what would happen, I didn’t know then where I’d go, or what I’d do, or the cities I’d live in, or the plots I’d fill, characters I’d meet, lovely characters animated by their own sad and brilliant actors, white souls, black souls, every-colored souls, constant actors, wearing different skins.
And now this one. Now that one. Now this one.