I’m running on empty. I’m wired. Ripped. Running with the wind. Pulsed with an energy that digs itself into my blood. Bites into my marrow. Gnaws though the guts of me. Rockets me in waves. Pure ice water glee. Or Rage. Or Desire. Or a shook up Molotov of all three. I can’t concentrate. Thoughts ricochet in the twisted, twisting core. It’s good. More than good. I’m flying. Nowhere to land. That’s good too. Lifted. Elevated. Alive. I see only sharp ribbons of light. Thin mercury lines of light rushing toward me. Like a wide opening night highway. A byway into me. I’m out of synch. Internal time out of tock with a slow listing world. A decaying world. A world of rot and savage imagery. I can sense the dark fall. See it waiting for me. An edge. A vacuum place. Gravity. I know its coming. But I’m wired. And this thrill ride is all its meant to be.
Running on empty