Our Origins [1]

A lawyer, surfer, artist, and mechanic agree to meet me under the 23rd Street pier at high moon. Carrying, respectively, a .38 snub nose, a tattered KJV Bible, a pocket knife and a bottle of Jack.

Maps of America include towns that don’t exist. Specks to the existence of National Economy. Judging the character of a place by the number of bodies calling it home would make them ghost towns.

Nothings.

Crumbs to modern civilization acting as relics of a past world. These villages, commonly imagined as twig huts and hillbilly retards, are but a drop of water when stacked next to the Ocean metropolis of skyscrapers, round-the-clock sounds, invisibility in numbers. 

Drop a New Yorker into middle-of-nowhere Kansas and the result will be a more pure mental breakdown than anything found in the local sorority house.

Drop an L.A. native into the South and they may begin praying to Science to return them home. Home, my Lord! Please! Good Science! Drop me at the alter of the Green Juice, show me the scenic view of a homeless man having schizophrenic episode at the red light! I miss it.

Places this populated are thriving with electricity - bountiful energy. Bumping. Urbanite vigor complete with nasal drips of a powdery white substance you got in the mens bathroom from a guy named Zane. No last name.

Boredom doesn’t exist here for the ‘human’ with even a microscopic amount of imagination. Still, this constant bustle doesn’t come from a place of purity. It’s increasingly anxious. A boiling sensation added to the zest that creates a lurking… anticipatory eruption. Gen pop vibrates with cortisol levels raised through 25mg of Extended relief Adderall chased down with a red bull or triple shot ice caramel skinny latte, drink of choice depending on your gender - lesbian or gay, respectively. If not careful you’ll be accused of rape for looking sideways at a middle aged woman named Gregory walking a french bulldog in a too-too. 

Eyes straight. Head high. You’re a white guy? That sucks. Unless you have the money to live in a safe part of the city. Then you’re golden. But who does? Movie stars? Oil tycoons? The Rothschilds? Even US Presidents, broke bastards they are, now have to…