COWS

by Matthew Stokoe

He wasn't like the people on the streets. They lived so perfectly. They knew exactly what to do to be happy and they did it without even having to think.

They were so much more real than himself, the air around them was bright with the definition of their existence. He felt himself blurring with the sunlight and the motion of the bus, as if his outline were sand or fine powder.

The air they breathed was not his air and the light that fell on them came from a warmer source than his sun. He longed to imitate them, to share in the mass normality that rolled in cathode waves across the dead nights of his loneliness.

Cows taste like heaven but ya can't trust 'em a single fuckin' inch."

YOU NEED GOD. JESUS. AND EXORCISM. JAIL. IN THAT ORDER

The real poison comes out of your head. All your fuck-ups and sadnesses and fears drop down like some sort of brainshit into your guts and build up there. That's what really fucks you up.

Interesting take