The stars disappear in the same manner as the buildings. In some other life, there would be consequences, but tonight, I can’t think of a single thing that’s out of place. Watching Meeko as she dances in her childish skin, I barely notice the tree taking giant strides through the melting landscape to the forest beyond. The thought occurs that I could be dreaming, and the moment I open my eyes, I’ll find myself back in our apartment slumped at my desk with a beer in one hand and my cock in the other. She’ll be in the shower, singing songs that have subconsciously guided me along. If this were the case, it wouldn’t disappoint. The products of my imagination—conscious or otherwise—have always been of more importance to me than what is real. I’d go as far to say that fantasy is my reality, and every day spent as a writer is another spent untethering myself from that which serves no purpose. The line was once blurry, but now, there are no traces of the line remaining. Along with everything else, it’s been smeared beyond recognition the same way love smears itself across your chin on a giddy night in the city. With rain lashing down upon steamy windows as you stand on the sidewalk, you seek out the mouth that seeks yours, and when they come together, the colours of life are forever changed. I can taste those colours the same as I can taste the rain. I can taste beer too. Whether or not it’s from the bar I left behind or from the bottle in my hand at my desk, I can’t say. The world swirls the same as the sky in Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It swirls because my mind swirls, and the more I love and write words to express this love, the faster I spin until one day I will surely be torn apart from the fury of my own momentum.