We were standing in a crowded subway Sephora. The Mars Volta playing with our Ouija Board. Somebody buzzes our door.

It is Musette calling to tell me not to be sad.

"It happens when it happens." I respond.

I can't tell hardly a thing to her anymore. Our relationship has become a cult of silence even as the cult of friends has all but vanished with nobody visiting. The writer in exile, but that is all going to change. This prison of my own device is pointed and what wrong can we find from the echoless listening to our own minds?

I am the white male, white whale, envying myself even as I am.

Musette is on the line but none of the lines are working. The internet is churning at a crawl. Can't make this call to save my life. The unemployment office says that I might be doing something illegal.

“I'm pretty sure I filled those forms out correctly.” I say. “Something has happened between you and me. A lot of information is getting lost."

Javascript can wipe a whole page out with the click of a button. Soon as the page loads. It’s all math and algebra. x+=+5.

Abigail Spencer masturbates on Motherless. She has little spots on her thighs. Her shirt is blue with ‘Boston’ written on it. Home of the cream pies. Can I get a fact check on that please?

Each day I'm getting closer to Medusa's eyes and it is taking all I’ve got to simply rise above circling that same comfort zone that made me. But those of us with fire in our hearts cannot help but concern ourelves with making what’s next.

"Dig deeper." says the guide. “Put your gambles in.”

“What choice have I?” say I. “For as you've all become blatantly aware, I cannot break my mind into spending much time in one place.”

“Just don't go back.” it says. “Don't be desperate. Weak. Scared. Pathetic. Forward thinking into what is next. Always with one bleeding eye on the horizon. Go without thinking. Leave the desperation behind. Trust thyself.”