Real

Bike-aloo! I see you.
I went some places.
What is not known about these pictures is the unnaturally suffocating heat that furls your skin inside out, the latter condition special to Houston with its interesting mixture of moisture with death; and then the smell of only God knows what, lurking beneath bridges, finds itself up to highway crevices through select Houston sewage filled with unfound museum thieves; and that unspoken existence of a city that never should have been, felt quite plainly once you've lived within.

Your discomfort is a sort of high. I feel the shudder of your cringe bone in pained ecstasy. I revel in it—I cannot describe my satisfaction at your dilapidating eyes. My fidgeting fingers search for control in motion. But I don't move in motion. I fish out your eyes, force them up to mine. Miming in the agony, I look for your thunder to forget myself and talk about what you ought to call us. Not by our sign, but by our Name. You demigod, the reason you cannot bear my gaze is because the veins behind my eyes cannot hold themselves back from reaching into yours. But hold it for long, and I'll show you what gushes together your decapitated limbs—golden blood. I'll help you piece together the tissues. I keep sharp arrows behind my bed. We'll take them and impale our eyes right through. But only with precision, because the partition of your socket holds a detailed map of the cosmic cords down under, and we don't want to switch any means.