Slow down, you crazy child – don’t you know that Pylaia waits for you?
August 9, 2016, 6:33 AM
Rest easy, Bernie. Shut those little eyelids of yours and catch a break, do – Pylaia waits for you. Until I see you on the other side of tomorrow, I wish you a slumber of the most serene kind – the kind that leaves you energized even when all life has fled your body at last call. You are Bulgaria, and you are the borderline between Bosnia and Herzegovina – don’t you ever forget that. Good night, Bernie.
I can hear the gunshots flourish in my backyard – it seems to me that the neighbors are at it again. A man of indeterminate features and at least five names rummages my lawn outside the foul hole he audates to call his “house,” which just so happens to be located next to my own foul hole of a “house” – or rather, my “house” of a foul hole. I can see him as he digs for gold, digging and digging ad infinitum, yet never quite realizing the currency exchange between the Drachma and the Yuan. He will never know the taste of caviar, and he will never know providence of any material. He will forever live in the dark, as if with his eyes closed, only his eyes will most certainly be wide open – his eye, anyway.
Bernie has been a bitch and a half to rid myself of. I wish him nothing but the worst, but as I glance upon his lifeless body with its pale limbs and thousand-yard stare… I cannot help but feel a certain sense of sympathy for him. I guess that will remain so until the next time I manage to pay him a visit – for now, I am confined to his ghost as it lives on in his odd-to-say-the-least vodka-stained manuscripts. Summer child… oh sweet summer child. He would have been 17 years old today, but he vaporized before he could ever see this very day – now all that remains is the cloud, one cloud among thousands of billions.
I suppose it is not all that odd, for life is an oddity in itself. Every day I witness unimaginable horrors that I must allow to amuse me. It’s no big feat to go mad in this economy, so romanticization is a necessity of the highest order. Sometimes I feel for Bernie, I really do. It is a low-level telepathy of sorts, in which he foresaw me and I get glances back on his life in return – I had known him since he was born. Now all I do is bear his meat suit around as I marvel in the absurd. A man in a man, I live next to a man who in turn has a little man standing next to his cerebrum, consulting him as he fires time and time again. I cannot catch a moment of sleep up in here… no wonder Bernie hadn’t gotten his first proper rest until the kicked that big ol’ bucket. Last I saw him before they dragged him to the hospital, he was a profound well, but he never made it out in all integrity. Hang on tight, Bernie. Someday, you’ll get there. Good night – don’t let the bedbugs bite.
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