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 ^{(it's beta!)}

This little being with a bracelet for a halo keeps following me around lately. Tap-tapping on the back of my skull, maybe through to my brain (which is suffering with colours and visuals of things I don't care about). This tiny bother won't go away, though. I'm beginning to think it's merely a convincing illusion like those paintings from the early Renaissance era. Very convincing, very deep, frustratingly unbelievable.

It's practically spring and the bus stops aren't as frequented as the earlier winter weeks past. There's still the tall guy, the bald guy, the wig with the watch, the old lady comparing herself to the young woman, the shadow of the homeless, and the chiaroscuro of children. And, of course, the crowned theory. It's still meditating somewhere behind me with a mind of steady footsteps and a forceful glare. Waiting for the bus now is a root-canal. Why do I have to stand here with the freaks off their pedestals? And that short THING--listen, I know what the representation of good is and it's not some dollar store jewelry. It's real, it's gold, it's platinum, it's the integration of figure and ground. It's beautiful and solid. Not you.

Fight fire with fire, I'd always heard. Adages are moronic, but I like the idea of burning things. So permanent. See, I once had a history teacher in junior high who marked me a D- for an essay I wrote about Benjamin Franklin and the Atomic Age. I wasn't allowed to go to the premier of Godzilla because of that peon. I burned the papers and it honestly felt like I'd been absolved. My findings on Franklin and his iron fist in the Atomic Age will never be expanded upon, but that's life.

So, late in the evening I plan on ridding myself of this thing with a rim of lies atop its head. When the city seems like a sleepy forest drowning in burnt sunlight, I'll travel the sidewalk home. Unalone, my bracelet-capped itch will tingle, itching at my scalp. Several occasions after trying to wave it away, I'll turn around to slap it into the concrete dead. But it'll be out of reach by then. I know this from prior experience. It's a movement parallax, a sick movie-trick to keep me guessing until the lackluster end. But it's in the books: Linear perspective brings no attention to the piece. Fractured art is where the money's at.

The architecture meets with juxtaposition (I'll never forget the skyscraper winking at the cathedral) and that little being with the halo will become a tall servant with white gloves, trailing behind me in the evening atmosphere. I'll toss a few coins to the gutters and a silent resonance will acknowledge his completed duty.

Hey, maybe then the fire will go out. I don't care, it's all just words I made into a picture anyway. Eventually I'll forget the image of smoke in the makeshift dryers above. If I made it, I can burn it. Just papers.