the tale of a boy who wished to meet his potential continues. drained of hope, he lies at night with nothing more left than a cold, desperate mixture of memory and comfort lust. yet, still, he wishes: at least to know – to glimpse, to remember – what’s kept so restrained. a face stays in his memory, a symbolic reminder of all that he is. reaching out to all players of desperation… these words keep us dead. i’d like to cut myself open to truly peer inside, and realise all i have, all i am. just to get away. just to return. but my mind plays, instead, like a rundown old movie theatre, showing reruns of clipshows of reruns, host to none but a single cultist. the projector runs by itself, in tune with your music box. why not come along, warm yourself on the pretty lights? you seem shocked at the offer. am i that repulsive? these glimpses of life and vitality frighten me also! i know where i stand, on these grounds. a crush for the young, a meal for mature. but you and i, of equal stature? this question i fail to understand. so many “paper clothes”, it’s hard to see past the papercuts. don’t you see them? then take a look at this: a frog beneath the microscope! you already know what begs to follow… no, not age, consumption and death, that’s outside the studio. inside is where you can marvel at the “prettiness”, so long as you keep behind the barrier. what more did you expect, from another boy?
