the space above my ears.

Saving Spartacus

All the heroes from all the comic books and news articles have one thing in common:

They have never known what they wanted. Not for certain.

The only soldier still alive on the battlefield shouts "Carpe Noctem!"

But nobody was left to write it down

The eloquent hands of all the scribes in the city were severed off, scattered around him.

So how does he feel about it?

What was the thing that made kamikaze missions favorable to what the stars tell us to do?

It's everywhere, it's in the little kids on the monkey bars who call each other words they shouldn't know.

The supervisors turn a blind eye to it, but god forbid I learn cursive before the third grade.

Okay, let's fix it, then.

Let's make a pie chart of the things that are considered paranormal and the things that are considered supernatural.

Paranormal is things like sounds coming from inside the unfinished walls, or six cars parked outside the butcher shop at 3:23 A.M.

Supernatural is the feeling of being forgotten when you were convinced you wouldn't mind putting an ending where the beginning should be.

Both are horrifying.

Both are rare to everybody except me and the soldier and the centipedes crawling on the carpet.

I can see why there is confusion around the whole idea, but don't ask me what it means, and don't waste your time trying to figure it out.

I spend the good parts of the evenings drowning in shitty allegories; what makes you think I know what I'm saying?

The only thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that everything we are is built on war.

All your life you are told that you're sick and you swear you don't feel it, but no one sees past the rings around your eyes.

People like Hannibal Lecter and people like you are supposed to move out of the city, out of the world.

They suggest the two of you should just build a house a few yards past Pluto, then have the audacity to frown upon you when you lack specificity in your book reports.

Fuck that noise.

I believe you, in fact, I am painting a moment with solely the primary colors just to spite them.

I shouldn't be kicked for it.

You should have a flat in the city with a couple cats and a pretty boy.

The method shouldn't fucking matter and I want to scream it, I want to say it so loud that my vocal cords tear, but nobody will take me seriously.

They wouldn't listen to you either.

The reason is that I am already writing about kings and queens and smashing coffee pots over the bad guys' heads.

You breathed the wrong way.

There is so little left for me to give you.

I'm done with their shit, I don't do this for them.

I do it for the kids who are in the dean's office because somebody saw them deface the Bible.

I do it for the kids who have the explain to the cops that it was just a bag of Skittles.

I do it for the girl who has to explain to her fuming Biology professor why it isn't her fault the weather is bad today.

He retorts by telling her that the world will forget her anyway, once she's retired and been reduced to paper.

He's right, in a way, but he's twisted the truth so hard that there is no longer a battle to win.

We will join the army of the slave revolt.

We'll be sure this time that there will be more than one warrior left when all is said and done.

Come with me, weather girl.