I had a dream the other night that I was blacking out, falling and couldn’t speak. My biological mother grabbed my hand and said “You’re going to figure it out” and disappeared.
Yesterday, I spent the day listening to songs 2Pac sampled and thinking about all the ghosts that come around when I’m lonely. Sometimes when I really feel alone, I think about this mass of ghosts in Louisiana, saying the rosary in French, wishing the best for me-just this large heap of whispers that’s really just too much for my body and ears to deal with.
These illustrations are from matchbooks that were printed in the Soviet Union in the 50s and 60s. Maybe there are so many ghosts that some live in space too. Maybe they go there when they’re bored with Louisiana, or just for a little visit like creepy Bezos. Outer space is our truest mother, so I get it. (I don’t get Bezos. He is space garbage.) Ainsi soit-il.