stillfugue

Double-zero-three is a smooth ride. I like the suspension, making it feel like a boat over tiny inundations of waves.

The lady in maroon calms as I show her my face of compassion which is after all composed from the very center of the core of a beautiful diamond in truth, but it is also true that now, I am far more worried about the stolen baby and how I might continue to save the baby from the fate of living in a house where the meth lab blew up five years ago and melted the baby’s mother’s face, even after which she continues to this day to cook and consume with glorious ferocity, watching her face that looks more like a squid out of water made of plastic, from the fate of being beaten and smashed by a father who is always so drunk, whose last date with his wife ended as they sat inside their car beside the shore of a lake that was strewn with rocks, he promising to leave her blood on every piece of rock on that “beach,” she so high on heroin that she walked home which took over four days and nearly caused death by starvation.

My mind continues with these disgusting memories, they continue to rattle my senses seemingly, glaringly, to support my actions, stealing their baby and then, in furious stupidity, stealing the bus. My life is over, but I’ve done at least one good thing.