The Song of the End of the World, Part I

Summer, 1999

One wakes up in her huge house. The music coming off of the hole on the floor is My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult's 'Dimentia 66 (The Ballad of Lucy Western)', from the 1993 digipack CD release by Interscope Records, '13 Above the Night'.

I want you to come with me / I want you to come with me / Come with me, come with me

One lays in bed, face up, legs splayed, arms resting at either side, staring unblinking at the impenetrable mist directly above. Every square inch of One's skin is in direct contact with either, a) mist, or b) the quilt of the nicely done bed beneath her. It is hazy inside the house. One's house consists of a bedroom, the bureau, and a kitchen. A corridor connects the bedroom and the kitchen. There is a porch outside the wall parallel to the corridor. The bureau is located between the bedroom and the kitchen. Fog and cool, humid air fill the entire house, thanks to One's huge open windows.

Dirty Little Secrets has just started.

One slowly sits up. One cannot see the door of the bureau directly in front, beyond the end of the bed, maybe 6 paces away. One gazes to the right at thick mist, where the portion of the bureau wall at the right of the door would be, which meets the exterior wall of the house that is to the right. One stares nothing. Then, sits on the edge of the bed for roughly two minutes.

So you want to do something that's a little bit not too Afro-centric-erotic-space-groove-jazz-funk-acid-punk?

One stands and walks on the creaky, aged, grey wooden floor, two paces and a half to the open window. One looks outside. It is light grey and misty. One looks out to the heavy fog outside the house. The fog's color is light grey. The light grey fog extends from everywhere to the invisible faraway mountains in the distance? They'd look purple from One's house. Or, maybe, black. One turns, just the head, to the left and sees the light greyness of the fog extending to the purple or black mountains in the distance. Then turns it again, this time slowly back, and follows the impenetrable grey mist all the way to the right, to the impenetrable grey mist directly in contact with each eye. One looks up at grey mist. The mist's color is light grey. The outside world is light grey, with an inexistent waistband. One extends an arm, the right one, out the window and holds out a finger – index – and, almost immediately, it's no longer there. After some time, her whole hand and arm are no longer there. One retracts the disappeared extended finger and brings the disappeared extended arm back in and turns to walk. One walks over to the bureau.

The song which was playing has started to play again from the beginning. So you want to do something that's a little bit not too Afro-centric-erotic-space-groove-jazz-funk-acid-punk?

One stops at the bureau's door, stares at it a moment. Hands down. Expressionless. One walks past the hole on the floor to the corridor leading to the kitchen. One walks across the corridor to the kitchen. In the kitchen, then walks to the window beside the front door. And looks through it and past the porch outside to the vast expanse of light grey mist outside the house, which extends to the faraway mountains in the distance. The faraway mountains are snow-capped. One turns, just the head, to the left, and sees heavy, light grey mist though the length of the empty porch. Then, turns it again, this time to the right, to the heavy, light grey mist to the right. The sky above the mountains is inexistent. The outside world is light grey, with an inexistent waistband.

The music keeps playing, the fog keeps hanging outside, the damp foggy night keeps the whole house in a light grey haze, the warm and humid air fills the house, stagnant.

Visions sweep away the tears and knots that bound our paper souls.

Then, go back to the bureau. One walks back through the corridor and past the hole on the floor to the bureau. One goes into the bureau to brush some teeth. One then washes some face. Then stands on the shower and urinates, grabs the chrome lever shower handle and pulls. Artificial rain! Then sits on the bidet and evacuates. One stands up and regards her making. Caninish. But pachydermically scaled. Clay! Yellow specks, roughly an eight of an inch in size, sporadically dot the material along its curled length. Gold? One presses down on the material. Picks some up. Holds it. Squeezes a rather thick section. Harder section. Material excretes out furiously from between five contracted fingers. One opens the hand. One looks at the palm. Clay! One brings the hand to the face and applies material to it. Picks up some more. Grab. Apply. Repeat. One then washes some face. One then stands in front of the full-body mirror. One stares back at the light grey mist for roughly six minutes. Hands down. Expressionless. One opens the otherwise empty medicine cabinet and takes out One's toonified multicolor plastic comb and pretends to comb some hair. One puts the comb down. One turns the chrome cold water sink handle counterclockwise. Cold water comes out.