Red sandals, ostrich, spiral, nipple ring, electropop
The trees bent under the weight of God’s majestic red sandals. Red filled the world, crushing everything, but leaving the flawless ostriches intact to show future generations that true natural selection favors the most awkward, inelegant, biggest egg laying species. Also the fastest. The day after the giant red step, the grass began to grow again, spiraling upward from the trodden earth, as though in defiance of God, I carefully got to my knees and removed every individual blade, because revolution and revolt makes me nervous, and when I get nervous all the blood rushes to my pectoralis major and my nipple ring begins to throb, a most unpleasant experience. The day after the great grass genocide, the God and the ostriches grew tired of each other’s company and decided to repopulate the earth. Orgasmic bird cries and electropop music from above filled the atmosphere, and I fell shaking to the earth, where I discovered a secret rebellion of dandelions armed with spores. I was injured in the calf making my escape. The day after, I shot God and ended the world, proving that to undo creation is easy, but to combine six seemingly unremarkable words into a series of successive events takes 10 whole minutes.
Jubilation, momentous, spontaneous, crucifixion, porous, sheep
Every spontaneous moment ended up confined in a half-desolate room. We, in momentous jubilation, fingers intertwined and minds in chemical resonance, observed the all-too-familiar green colored walls in their four-cornered sweet embrace, trying desperately to redeem their fading beauty despite the shit yellow rims drawing out of the ceiling due to years of abuse from the cheap smoke of Chinese cigarettes and the bitter aroma of Columbian Coffee. On those walls, I remembered the plastered kitsch pop-French poster art, the photograph of Einstein riding a bike like a 4-year-old, and some Persian poetry randomly scribbled in crimson ink. I could never sleep in that green walled box; even when you slept as quietly as a half-dead sheep. I should have perhaps been comforted by your presence and the way you resembled a cold white cloud or a medicinal cotton ball, but your porous skin always exhumed the dizzying scent of methadone that made my own pores filled with burning sweat. It made me wonder foolishly whether Christ felt his flesh during crucifixion and whether you were really the silent mass sleeping on that empty bed.