By Weathergirl, at LP.
And there you are at the podium, at the microphone—you know your voice is voluptuous and they love it: they love your work, they love you, they think exactly!, they know you share their pain, their thin voices toil to impress you.
Times like this, you can hardly tolerate them. Yet despite yourself you feel an almost transcendental thrill. So hypnotic is their devotion that you float on it, drifting above yourself: you look down and see your head as— as— as— oh fuck. This time it’s a bloody cement-truck, churning and spitting out your grey matter, and they’re bathing and snorting in it like bovines.
Jesus. How did it come to this? Once you were buoyed by their devotion, but now — recently — things have changed.
It had to happen. You’ve had your doubts from time to time, chewing at the edge of your conscience. You just couldn’t afford to entertain them, not with so much at stake. But the more you dug your heels in, the more those thoughts minced and multiplied. Like a tapeworm, constant and exponential, leaving your arguments cavernous.