Today I explored the bad part of town. I saw a sledgehammer fight, a gang-tickling, and a horse crushed by a piano. I was photographing the horse's body when his ghost floated up and asked what I was doing. I said I'm a photographer fascinated by the perfection of death and how it mirrors the societal strife that tramples self-expression by Othering transgressives and free-thinkers. I think I came on too strong because he just said "that's cool" and poofed away.
It's 3am and my neighbor is blasting Thrill Kill Kult at 100 decibels. I've knocked on his door five times, but he either ignores me or hits me with a spring-loaded boxing glove. Some people don't deserve to be called people.
Dear (I don't know your name),
I hope you get this letter. I'm leaving it outside the wilted tenement where you live. Yesterday, I saw a cat run over by a flaming ice-cream truck that drove off a cliff and it filled me with sorrow for humanity. I don't know why, but I honestly feel you can help me with this somehow.
You might remember me from last week. We talked a few minutes before that duck chased you away. I'd really like to get coffee or hot dogs or malt liquor sometime. I think we have a lot in common and could be good friends, or maybe more, assuming the duck isn't your boyfriend. If he is,
disregard I guess we could still hang out and talk about feelings or something.
The girl never answered my letter. I've taken up self-injury to channel my pain. I'm about to drop a bowling ball on my foot. I'd use something less jejune like a Greek urn, but the stores here only sell demotic '50s Americana. I asked one of the philistines at the furniture shop for an ottoman and he called the police.
The ball hits my foot. Pain shoots up my leg. I focus on the stars. There's no life, no death, only me and this indifferent world that coolly ignores my suffering. This cool, cruel world.
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