everything must come to an end, the world, the tv, the text on the tv. it tells you hello, and goodbye. the tv turns
on and turns off on its own and you are not home. you are dancing in a derelict club, delirious and so you name
yourself “everything must come to an end”. to pull your boxers up your legs you need your hands, or at least a
hook. the end of your arms needs a hook. you close your eyes and the tears soar down your cheeks, 90, 100, 200,
350 miles per hour, you could only dream of those speeds. might as well be flying, but you're sinking into the
floor of a club and the music seems to push you further down with every pulse. you are sad and nothing can
cure you. soaring through the air, nothing can cure you. arms crossed on the chest, fingers curled in towards the
palms, wind blowing whips of hair onto your feathered back. chip away at this sculpture of yours, lie facedown
on the floor of a club and stretch your wings into the space you fill. drink, and drink some more, break the glass
and name yourself. break the glass and fly away, fly away and wipe the tears with your shirt. youre not crying
now. no, youre not crying.

He hit me on the head and I laughed.
I closed my eyes and screamed laughter, the blood warm, theatre curtain crimson, even the light streaming from the crack in my head.
I hit back.
I raised the axe above my head and I hit him back.
He screamed and screamed until he sounded raw, and screaming he raised the cracked jar above his head and brought it down onto my bleeding skull.
You couldn't have told me a funnier joke.
I was blinded by the downpour of glass and blood but laugh I did, stumbling around and gasping for breath and reaching out for the light I saw through my eyelids like it was the final act in a play.
I should have bowed.
I wiped my face and peeked through the curtains just enough to make out your figure and I swung that axe at your head like it would win me the lottery.
We laughed as if we had.

I have the same dream every night. Dream, or nightmare, or paralysis, like you’re lying on your back with a weight on your chest, making you breathe and pumping your heart. It’s a nightmare, I’m dying of cancer in a hospital bed, I open my eyes and see the floor, I'm on my stomach and my head is cold, it smells like nothing in here. I’m floating in space, in water, in lukewarm water in a deprivation tank. I have the same nightmare every night. Music is playing, it’s a painting in a museum, I am in the spotlight, I am starring in a scene in a movie, I open my eyes and I'm on my back with tubes in my arms and nose. I look over through my eyelids at the doctor and he smiles and tells me I am ok, I do not need someone to tell me I am ok, I do not need a doctor right now so he has a plaid flannel on and old gray jeans. He grabs the metal pole and I sit up, watching through closed eyes, cannula in my nose. He picks me up, carefully, I am not his daughter, I am not his son. Hand on my head, callused and scarred, hand on the pole, hands on his back as I grip his soft shirt. I blink, he is walking me down the hall, it’s snowing outside, smiling night shift nurse and all. With each snowflake a note from a synthesizer, a cone of light, a bench with no snow, a man who is not my father. I turn my face into his thick hair, he smokes a cigarette and I die a little bit slower. The snow is melting onto my bare back, in between my toes, the ground is warm beneath bare feet, it feels like I am dreaming. He smokes a cigarette and I can hear my own eulogy. I hear god calling the wrong name, I swim in melted snow, he smokes a cigarette and I know how dangerous this is. He tells me I am ok. Hand on my back, feet on the ground, my hand on my metal pole with my name on it. I don’t know how it hasn’t frozen. Midnight freezes over and the body stays warm, the pole stays warm as do my feet, his hand rubbing my back, me throwing up in a cold bathroom, cold tiles, warm body. Beeping monitor, dripping snow, flannel shirt. Last cigarette in the pack, a music swell, a serial killer's final meal, final words, beeping monitor and iv drip. He goes out for the last cigarette, he tells me I am ok, the doctors pound at my chest counting numbers, counting a rhythm. He dances with me out in the snow, I am lying on my back with doctors pumping my heart, I have the same dream every night.