The report, not the story by Adam Macy

To all Gods beloved in Rome, who are called to be saints: Romans 1:7

The horror of the life that was lead began.

The foundational discovery of Vincents passionate desire for euphoric dissonance drove his decision to become Jesus, and after that point, after the cards and friends and the nothingness, he left his soul, and danced, and ran forward. Awkwardly pacing in his study, Mr. DiaCenzo ran forward without consternation. He was a young man then, without regard, without honor, and his laced buttons were conceptual more than actual. His pace was lazy, and his manner unrefined and diffident, but ultimately, painfully, polite. The parties were a discovery, they were long and well-lit, like the ancient halls of ships since drowned, and Mr. DiaCenzo, or Hec, as he was called by those who admired his mystical worldview, wandered aimlessly, flirtatiously making eyes with those angels more willing. The pain of it all was evident, the lass, the lack, the ultimate rejection that stained his being, not one person in this room could possibly be his. Not one person in this room was buried deep in his blood. After all, not one person in this room had the strength, virtue, and affectionate glances of Lancia Wornol. And with that, a character was born. Lancia was even, she thought and dressed exquisitely, she lived a life without mistake, she lived a life unburdened by expectation or daydreams. She countered Hecs belligerent distance, she countered with elegance and trapped sexuality. Of course, the finer moments of Hecs romance involved the beginning of their courtship. He would follow her around the room with his eyes, staring into her, bleeding her of attention, and then he would walk through the main hallway, past paintings of lasting consequence, into the courtyard where he would hunch over and feel the blades of grass with his fingers, until she came out.

When she did, he would avoid eye contact, staring solemnly into the dirt beneath the grass, dirt he could not see, and with that avoidance, that neglect, came an attachment so strong that nothing could separate them, not time, not space, not even their love. Their conversations were spare, they spent most of their time silent, observing the grass or occasionally looking up at the sky only to be tossed down by its light. There could be no mistakes with Lancia, but she was making a horrendous one, and her strong father was quite aware. Mr. Wornol was quite taken with his daughter, she had matured beautifully and was without regard, but he hated her affections, he desired her and needed her near, without love object, and for that he was ever worried, ever perplexed, forever haunting Lancia. His taste for meat and liquor was insatiable, he had no regard for his body. His gut was formidable, but he dressed drastically, spending all his earnings on new elaborate costumes, which he wore around the house, not to parties. In fact, for the social events he was invited to, which were rare, he dressed invisibly, without regard. Lancia loved him very much but could not pass Hec without squeezing, without holding, without seeing him as a total pillow. And with that, blood boiled. Hec was without consequence, his mental state was either present or past, never focused on the future, and Lancia became frustrated. She walked through her estate, gazing around passing through letters from school fellows and townsmen, wondering of the possibility of love with a man so neglectful so tastefully individualistic. And without his neglect, without his self-effacing abandon, his ability to fall into palaces of though known to hungry canvasses only, she was not needing, and she left. He moaned and wrote letter upon letter, demanding her love, he screamed and screamed and tried to focus his energies on physical pain, he became unruly and outwardly aggressive, he talked to his closest friends as if they were spies sent by her for discovery, he ran by himself, through townspeople, without looking ahead, all he could see was his thoughts. And as time went by, and she found comfort in a boring, civilized man, he had no energy left. He was complacent in a way, he could find no comfort in, desperate for recklessness he emerged as a leading painter of his period, abstractions he defined as portraits of love, proposed and deliberate on, discussed for centuries by those who could not feel his strength. With his lines of rushed integrity, he developed a following unlike any other, and Lancia received word of his fame. She wrote him letter upon letter without response, not lack of interested, Hec was entirely beaten, and his fame was unnoticed by its possessor. She placed a call finally, upon his place, and he agreed to see her once again. They walked through the park, past lakes and trees and clouds, and the passing was gruesome, anxious in her need, she beset by trembling, and he was distant, imagining his canvass, his blank spot. They parted with much trouble, he wanted her, he wanted to own her, and got what she needed, another look at this ugly madman she once promised eternal love. They wrote to each other sparingly and never spoke again. He was eager to move elsewhere.

Blood! There is blood all over the ground, all over the paper. Its deep with red. Oh my god, he is bleeding all over the fucking carpet. Oh my god. Where is my sense of urgency. This is my son. He is my son. My son is bleeding all over the carpet. My son. My son. Jesus. My son. Thatll be eight dollars. Thank you maam. Heres twenty. Keep it. In fact, take my wallet. Why thank you sir. Maam, call me Jesus. Sure thing, son. I mean Jesus. Twisting. Always twisting. Jesus was mighty good at twister they said. Not as good as Vinny, but close. Stop it Vin. Cmon. Stop it Vin, that hurts. When are you gonna take off the costume Vin. Never baby. This is me. No way baby, I dont believe it. Believe it baby. This is me. No, I wont. Why not? Cause I need you. I need you now too. Well, obviously not. For the love of God stop! I do need you. If youre Jesus you dont need anything. Dont play with me. Stop loving him. Stop loving him. He is going to die. I gotta go. Good night. Ok, sweetie, I will call you tomorrow. Ok, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie. Goodnight. Tomorrow, babe, tomorrow. Hey, dont let your dad see that hickey, hell kill me. Fine. Dont fine me, son. Dont fine me. I am your father. Mother isnt here to say the same...

She never was. Fuck you. Fuck you? Get out. Fight again dude? Fight again man. Well shit dude, I dont really know what to say. I know. Lets give this Jesus thing a real shot. Make my Dad understand. He is not your friend. Do not like him. Do not like him. Do not like him. But, alas, it is impossible not to like him. He is Jesus. He is Him. And I am You. I am the reader. I am you. So join me as I watch Vin. As we watch Vin. As we watch Vin, as Jesus.

Beginning

The neon lights of the bar shown like so many angels in midnight sky. Green. Blue. Violet. Oyster Shell! Oyster Shell! Oyster Shell! The dirt outside of the bar was covered in rocks only known to such selects parts of the Mojave desert as this one. These rocks were black with small jagged edges rounding each one. The moon was low behind them, glaring behind the shoulders of the cacti which served as protection for the foxes that slept behind their lunar shade. Cmon Vin. Im getting scared. Sure Vin. No really, Im getting scared. This isnt right. Right? Its a fucking school project dude. Chill. Enjoy it. Take it easy.

Cool beans man. Cool beans. Jack and the fucking beanstalk man. I love that shit. The steady, wood door creaked open like they were entering a saloon. This was no saloon though. The waitress was obviously a tramp and the bouncer was retarded. The lepers were in the back, and those with webbed feet danced heartily towards the front. Cmon man. Heal. I cant heal everybody. Vin slowly walked towards the blonde girl with toenails. She was pretty looking but had the tongue and disposition of a dragon. Dragonlair? Dragonlair? These dragons are everywhere. Pouncing. Circles. Circles. Circles. Circles. How is this supposed to work, dude? Just talk to them. Find out what they need and give it to them. Be selfless. He is not the son of God. Hi maam. Hi. Fancy costume. This is no costume. I noticed. I noticed your tongue has a strange shape. Yeah, thats cause it aint mine, if youll excuse me. She pounded a flaming tequiila like it was green air. Feeling faulty and uncertain she grabbed Vin by the back of neck and whispered in his ear, He is coming. He is coming. He is coming and He aint you. Me? Tell me what you know, sir. Please. Please tell me what you know. Hey baby, want a ride? Please be quiet sir, I am in the middle of healing this poor woman. The glass mirror behind was sparkling like so much violet backlit with Gods stars. The country was always like this. But. But this wasnt the country. Spooky, aint it? Well, Jesus, if its like that. The bitch aint even worth it. Move on partner, move on. I will be with you in a moment. I will touch you in a moment. Well shit, Ill be outside, taking a shit. Good man. Not as good as you partner. How did you... How did I what? How did you get him to do that? Do what?

To not rape me. He always rapes me. Its Saturday. He always rapes me on Saturdays. We gonna go raping tonight. Thats what his t-shirt says. The shirt under the jacket made of dragonskin. Interesting. Dude, yeah, Ill be over in the booth. Kickin it. Ok man, whatever. Listen, let me help you. I dont need your help. I have everything I need, thank you very much. I have everything I need too, so let me help you. I dont need help! Run girl run. He is no good. He is going to die. His father will find him. Run away. I say again. Run away. The tavern closed behind him like a shot. Nothing. Not one. Not one person saved. Hey man. Oh hey, dragonman. Yeah, whatever. Listen, can you give me a lift? Yeah sure. I would appreciate my giving you a lift. Uh, ok. Sure then, I would really, really appreciate it as well. Works out then. Ok then. Ok. Hop in. Ok. There is so much blood, so much. Too much. Too much. Listen pal, Im not a faggot, so dont even try undoing my britches. Faggot? Listen, buddy, this here in the passenger seat is JC. And this aint no class project neither. They tore down the desert like three banchees in search of dark destiny. The horizon was dark. The horizon is always dark. The thing is this. You bungholes expect me to believe...you expect me to believe that this here is Jesus Christ. The original Jesus Christ? No actually. Then what the fuck are you telling me? Dude. What man? Just tell him. Ok man, I am Jesus. I am Jesus Christ. If you want to be healed Right, well then if you are Jesus, who the fuck is your partner? My partner? My partner right here...next to me? Yeah mutherfucker, right next to you. The country looking biatch right next to you. This guy here is my main man. I get that. I see the way you guys look at each other.

So whats his name, asswipe? His name is Joe. Cool. People always wondered about Joe, even before JC named him Joe. Dude! Dude! There is too much blood here, way too much blood here for this. Where the fuck did all this blood come from? Mr. DiaCenzo? Where are you going?!?!?!?! Where the FUCK are you going Mr. DiaCenzo?

Sir, we can drop you here. Cool boys. Well sir, I feel like we let you down. How so? Well, we didnt perform any miracles, wouldnt you like to see a miracle? Joe was raised on a barn, a barn without any perimeters, just horses roaming freely throughout the cavern like ranch grounds. One side was elevated, approximating an enormous wave of bright green. The weeds stuck up like lamp posts and the wind was always blowing. The hill, or The Wave as they used to call it, always looked like it was in motion. Joe and Vincent tried to climb it once. They failed. I feel like Jesus should do something extraordinary, like raise the dead or something. Something crazy. Well ride with us then. Yeah, ride with us. We will show you something awful. Off they went, tearing down the highway once more, unable to explain the feeling they all felt. Something extraordinary was happening. It always seems to end this way. What do you mean? I dont know. Speak up man. Well, three guys tearing down the desert. I feel like it is gonna end soon. Well, it might. Pull over. Why? Cause Im gonna puke.

As Vin leaned over to vomit, three lightly tanned Mexican women walked by carrying clay vases on their heads. The horizon was further back than ever. The road was dungy and creepy. The sun was setting beyond far mountains, and they had no idea. Hola, senor. Hola, dont mind my compadre, he is just barfing. Podemos ver. Necesitas ayuda? Si, hay a place to sleep around here? Vin made motions with his hands to show: sleep, we need sleep. Si, tenemos algun lugar. Vamos. And they went. They went further south, towards the ocean. The mountains were behind them now. Vin could have sworn they were in front. The hillside was changing, sloping outward instead of inward. Forward instead of backward. Everything seemed to be melting around him. ????????????????????????????? Dude, you see that? Yeah, man. I see that. The girls were naked. Except one. One girl was fully clothed nursing a small infant in the corner of the small adobe hut. He approached the girl with a sense of serene, satisfying, contemptuous comfort unbeknownst to such a bedeviled young man. The girl was succulent, suppulent, satisfying. She had dark brown skin. Eyes like olives. A body like an olive. Skin like an olive. She was an olive. Believe. Hello olive. Hola. Como se llama? Se? My name is Saolupe. You do not need to address with such a name. Such a name? What do you mean? You addressed as usted. That is funny. Yourself, of course, of course you can say so yourself. You are.... Saolupe. My name Saolupe. That was not what I was going to say. He reached down to the ground with his fingers ever so gently, placed his right foot in front of his left, and reached out. Out with his right hand towards her olive hair, and touched it, touched it ever so slightly, ever so wonderfully that she, she rolled her eyes up towards heaven as if to say....thank you. The room was bare and uneven. Gravel rolled across the ground like tumbleweeds. The small rocks were surprisingly stable and secure. There was a single fan overhead, blowing, blowing like the wind out of the Panama river. A river so gentle and mild. Your name, please? Please, he muttered to himself. Please, my name is Vin. But, but you can call me Jesus. Jesus? Yes, Jesus. I am Jesus, unfortunately. Why unfortunately? From what I understand, Jesus is an incredible man. Stacked with virility.

I see. The thing is, right now, right here, at this very second, in this very desert, I want to be one person. Do you know who that is? I have an idea. Here. He takes her small, dainty fingers and rushes them towards his white, buttoned, ribbed shirt. He takes her small, dainty fingers and rushes them towards his heart. His soul smiled. She smiled back. Hello, she said. My soul is gracious, he said. I love you, she said. I love you too, he said. Who are you, he/she said. Who are you, she/he said. I want to be with you, he/she said. They both smiled. They lied together for the rest of the night, wondering, wondering what if? What if this is real? What if this is not? Who is this person? Jesus, he cant be Jesus. Jesus should be bigger, stronger, more idealistic, not so...romantic and caring. He should ignore me. He should tell me to get lost. He should love me, hate me, anything, something to show me that he is there. Sometimes I stay up at night wondering if nights like these are actually possible. He cant be Jesus. Nobody can be Jesus but Jesus, if this young man has the gall to think that he, no, no it is not possible. Nothing is possible. If this isnt possible nothing is possible. She loves me, she has to love me. This has to be Real. Real. Real. Take me there, she whispered. Where? Wherever it is that you go. Why? Because I love you. You dont know me. Yes, I do. I know you very well. I saw your soul. He smiled at me. Your soul is your best friend. Su alma es su companero. I know this. I feel my soul smiling. She wants to leap out of me and into you. I believe he has. I feel him kicking. Time passes. Let me kill for you. But why, you seem so well-mannered and more importantly, well balanced. Let me kill for you to show you that I love you. I cannot. I will not let you come with me unless you let me kill for you. You have killed my heart that is enough. Life is enough, you must not let our love ruin the lives of anybody else. Do you understand me? I do, but I am scared.

Scared of what? Scared of dying. But why, you are so willing to kill. I am not willing to kill. I will kill for you. I see. It is too dangerous, I cannot let you do this. But why senorita, it is my destiny to kill for you. Destiny, you speak of destiny. I am your destiny. Nothing outside of me is your destiny. Oh, do not tell me such things. Do not tell me such things! Lest you not forget the dirt where you came out from. Kill my sister, then. Kill my sister. I cannot kill your sister. Then I cannot love you. Fine, I will kill your sister. I do not know why I will do such a thing, but I feel as if I have to do it. Is that ok? Who are you asking? I ask, Him, only him? You are not Jesus, remember that. But. But what? But, I feel like Jesus. You, you make me feel like Jesus. I love you I Love you too. Then kill my sister. Ok, I will kill your sister. Ok. Ok. Ok. Ok. Ok. Which one is she, the blonde? None of us are blonde. I am joking, I joke. Wonderful, we shall joke together. Together, we joke.

To that I salute. To that he saluted, little did Jesus know that his downfall was approaching, much faster than he had ever dreamed, or masturbated to.

She is the one in the corner. If you do not kill her, I will have to kill her. I will have to show you how to kill. I must stop writing this. Listen to me. I am listening. I cannot do this. But you must, you must do this for me, for your love. You are not...you are my love, and therefore I will do this. I will do this for you, because you are my love. I will kill your sister, if it pleases you. It pleases me. Promise? I promise. He grabbed the dagger out of his loins and crawled over to the sleeping angel asleep in her corner. Her fatal ignorance was a warm blanket. She didnt move. She also didnt wake up. The police never came, they never searched. They never did a thing. The police are interesting people. They find themselves obligated to different things. Horace Pants had an eating disorder and nobody cared, so instead of quitting the force, he decided to begin his own private publishing company that would produce his own private book. The book was to be called, The Jesus Story, in it he would describe the goings on of a young protagonist, modeled after himself, that pretended he was Jesus under the false guise of research for a school essay. Pants did absolutely no research for the project but found himself sitting on something extraordinary, that is, of course, until he opened his big, ugly, smelly, protruding, ugly, big, smelly, protruding jaw. Pants had never written anything in his life, so for him to begin penning The Jesus Story was more than ambitious, it was downright stupid. He had recently mastered the alphabet so that he could pass the entry exams at the police academy, but now, he was writing. Not just writing, but really writing, it was as if he was writing out of his loins. He was ejaculating all over the page and it worked brilliantly. First, he began with a conversation. Then, he moved into plot and foreshadowing. He had no idea what he was doing but everything came out great. He faxed a copy of the first chapter to Publishers Clearinghouse, assuming that they had a certain expertise on how to properly write the Great American Novel, the best piece of original grammar since Joyces The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Pants assumed that that book was also semi-autobiographical. Anyway, his story began to mirror real life. He would write and write and the things he was writing about began turning up in real life. For example, the story took place in Arizona. Pants was a cop at the 27th precinct just outside Scottsdale. His parents were quite wealthy but they hated him. They would beat him up every time he came around, with zucchinis, according to Horace. After he left home, he joined the academy and found himself uncertain of his future. In fact, he felt like he didnt have a future, he felt like, outside of his girlfriend, he had nothing. He read a lot and got a decent amount of exercise, but other than that, there just wasnt much to life. He would talk to people. That was nice. He would read. That was nice. He would smoke grass. That was nice. Outside

of that, there wasnt much. He didnt really know how to explain this angst to anybody. For him, the word angst was something original and unknown. So, he decided to act on this original angst and enrolled in the police academy. His parents were furious. They envisioned something substantial. Something productive. Something his father could hang his wool, worn hat on. But it was not to be. Horace was after something greater, he wanted to help people. He got so tired of hating himself, of dealing with his angst, that he decided to escape himself in a way that he felt like people were always cool with, that of helping. He wanted to stick his neck out for the little guy. At 5 feet flat, Horace was a little guy himself. Horace never seemed to have short mans syndrome. Horace began working on the novel and everybody thought it was so brilliant. Hey Horass. Yeah asswipe. We got a fax for ya. Oh yeah? Its from right outside Scottsdale. Oh yeah, what gives? Check it out. Bitch be dead. Yo man. What? Just read the fax. And? I think its B.S. What do you mean? Well, it doesnt really look like a police report. Its not. The investigator on the scene wrote that. Who was the investigator? Some private. Seems unprofessional. The only thing was, Horace did not imagine a private investigator in his story. In his story, a murder took place outside Scottsdale and the guy got caught. Thinking he was Jesus The bleeding!!!!! Can somebody please stop the bleeding!!!!! Its all over the walls, over the carpet.........my hands!!!!!! My hands are covered in blood!!!!!!!!! Nails, nails through his hands.

They never appreciate nails. I am a

Nail. Remember me. Remember me as a nail. Nails were hard to come by on this part of the journey. The tightly ribboned sky shown brightly like so many argonauts out of some overpriced space program. Vin was having a hard time reconciling what he did. The dirt swirling around like so many maggots at a petting zoo. He is always watching. But, he doesnt watch everybody. At this very instant, he was watching one man. Vin was right there. Vin has committed murder. Gracias. Gracias a Dios. Im glad I did it. Me too.

Lets get out of here Vin. Why did you..... Why did I what? Why did you do it? I thought we were after something here. I thought we were doing something important. This woman is beautiful. But, why Vin?

Bleeding, he wont......he wont stop bleeding.....the gauze is melting.......the gauze is melting.........why would the gauze melt? I dont know, Pants said.

Pants, get the fuck over here. We got a dead body. I know we got a dead body. This is your fucking fault Horass. This guy should have been arrested three fucking weeks ago. What? What the fuck were you thinking, checking, rechecking, wondering, re....wondering, just fucking diddledallying. We got a dead kid here. Dad is crying Horass.

The type writer is stalled.

A girl, Vin, a girl. The cackling wind of the northern hemisphere did not last very long. Soon, dry longing humid dank light dark petrifying air would encompass everything that he knew, everything that he understood, everything that he wanted to understand, to hold close to heart and say, yes, yes, yes, come in and tell me what it is you want, what it is you care about, you, you, you, you, and and and

here she was, uncertain, bedeviled, bedeviling, and and and he killed for her he killed for his love, his sacred self, his giving self, his wanton self has been sacrificed for his affection, his glorious affection for his lifemate, for his soultaker, for his soulmate, for his soulpartner, for his LOVE. He found himself bothered, tortured, uncertain. He would look at her, at those almond colored eyes that spoke of truths unknown to those of this planet, this planet of atoms molecules economics and Karl Marx of truths unknown to planets beyond this galaxy and the next one, to one truth, one singular truth, that of the beating heart. As long he had his heart, as long as he had this feeling, he understood that he did the right thing. So.

BLEEDING, still BLEEDING, still BLEEDING with uncertainty and PLEASURE.

The smell of the truck was strong. The bikers beard had grown three inches over night. It was brown, shaded with streaks sterling severe centering white. His eyes were bright blue and he had no nose to speak of. His hat was tilted off to the side. His afro was so big that one couldnt see his hair from the back, that would be too complicated, too complicated. They passed natives on the journey. They waved. Nothing more. The biker was excited. He was an outlaw. He raped often, that actually disappointed him, he was hoping to rape that broad, show her what she was really working with. The rap sheet was long. He spoke about it often and proudly. Raped her. Her. Her. Her. Her. There were so many, all with the same name.

Jesus was certainly in charge of everything just about, supplies, heroin, junk, everything they needed for the trip out west. They wanted Oregon, they wanted to go to Oregon and start a farm. A farm with cows, and horses, and people, and amusement parks, and arcade games, and everything they ever wanted. The only problem is, it all had to be on one farm. One Farm Everything had to be on one farm. The biker would brag and brag about god knows what and Vin understood. Vin had accepted his countenance, he understood his sin and felt as if he could move on if his followers

would accept him. The problem is, Vin didnt have any followers. Jesus had followers. Vin didnt.

Horace moaned his dichotomy. On the one hand, we have Jesus, secure, happy, giving. On the one hand, we have Vin, secure happy, giving. Fear divides.

Steven! Steven! Who the fuck is Steven? Horace said. Arent you Steven? No Im... Well fuck it then, Pants, I see your badge, I see your goddamn, godforsaken, godfearing badge. Listen, Im on this one chief, now leave me alone so I can get back to the case. I need to get back to the case and get things started on whats right. Nothing is right here, Pants. This is my name. Not if I say it isnt dammit. Right, sorry chief.

Goodday Horace. Fuck off. Whats wrong? Whats wrong? Its over. Whats over? The case, everything. Its over. I dont understand. Youve been chasing this guy forever. You caught this Jesus guy. You caught him. I didnt catch him. I didnt catch anybody.

But you shot him didnt you? I dont Know. Who Shot

Who. This is something we must

work

on

my

memory

for

it

is

false. Horace wake up. Horace wake up. Horace wake up. Horace wake up. I cant wake up. Im still sleeping. I cant stop sleeping. I am in a dungeon. The dungeon is speaking, owning frustrating. I am in the dungeon. I am the dungeon. The dungeon is me. I dungeon is in me. What the fuck do I do with this dungeon? I tried killing it. I tried creating it.

I tried nurturing it. Did I kill Vin? I am a hallucination, I am your father, your conscience, your mother, I am you, just like everything else in this world, I am you, I belong to you, but only because you created me, only because you make me what I am. I dont understand. Accept me, accept your creation, accept your understanding. Accept your girlfriend, accept the alphabet you learned at the academy. For crying out loud, you killed him. The charcoal was suddenly filled with blues and purples and violets and blues. Everything was so fucking green, so fucking lively, so fucking peaceful and elegant, but violent. It could all explode at any moment. Then. Then it did. God winked, I swear I saw him wink. You saw nothing. I looked up and saw him wink, do not tell me it was nothing. I saw him wink. He is winking now I feel him winking. My senses are crying. My senses are crying. I love her so much. Who? The mexican. I love the Mexican. Then why did you kill her sister? Because she wanted me to. She wanted you to? Yes, and I wanted to. Yes, but why? Because I had to, it was all I could do.

Print it. Print the report, not the story. Horace? Yes, boss. Where is that fucking report? Right here.

******************************************************************************

Next

Vin. What? Vin man wake up. What? Wake the fuck up Vin. What, why? We are almost there. Almost where? Almost at the Church you fucking idiot, almost at the Church. What Church? Yeah man get the fuck out of the car, Im gonna run over to the ampm.

Hello father. Hello Son, how can I help you? Well, father, Im a bit confused, you see me and my friends have been travelling for quite some time, we are on some sort of mobile science experiment I guess, and somebody got hurt along the way. I see. Yes, somebody got hurt very badly, now I would like to think that I am a good Christian, and I believe myself to be just that, its just that well, the thing is father, I want to be Jesus. We all have our aspirations, those of us that follow the good book decidedly follow His way. I understand that, but like, the thing is, I really want to be Jesus, in fact, I think that I am Him. But Son, there is only One, and live in spirit, not flesh. His spirit may live inside of you, but you are not He. But how do you know that Father? How do you know that I am not Him. I mean, did He know that He was Him. Did the bigger He, know that He was His Son. Its all so confusing.

All the capital letters.

STOP BLEEDING I need some sense of understanding. HELP ME, OFFICER, HELP ME, I CANT, I CANT, I CANT FEEL MY LEGS, I CANT FEEL ANYTHING, IM, OFFICER, IM, OFFICER, HELP ME, HELP ME, I cant just keeping running like this, I made a mistake. I thought I was something I wasnt, though I do feel something very real. Listen, son, I will give you one piece of advice, one only. Please, father, please. Follow your heart. The fog cleared, and a white and gray speckled sky that resembled the dust on a caterpillars back spoke volumes about the skys nature, understanding where things came and come from.

Horace! Horace! Horace!

Wake up! What? What is it? You fell asleep at the typewriter dude, finish that fucking report already, youve done a good job, a great job, good job Horace, you should be proud. Ok. Oh shit. Backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace,....................................................................

Speaking from another voice, the choices rang from something different and more different and trying and different and trying and different. When the trick became something violent and absurd, the one thing that mattered was altered totally, when these things became more important than something else, those things were destroyed for some other reason that cannot be understood. The Vincent was dying and his life was unreal.

The Vincent was dying and his life was unreal.

or change

The destruction of Vincent was quick. Shooting, shooting, shot, shot, shot, dad, dead, dead, Horace, shoots him, dead. And the dad, left with his own loss, his own loss, cannot see anything because his childs blood, his small childs blood, this random piece of chromosome and grunting was left alone and bleeding. The shot, fired. Who are you? Calm down. Who are you? Calm down. Dont point, dont point it at me you piece of shit, dont fucking point it at me, you rushing me along you rushing me along. Shut up. I cannot you are mine you cannot move you cannot move you cannot you cannot you cannot.

I loved her. It doesnt matter. BANG.

What? Horace? Horace what happened, Horace what happened who is that man over there by the door why is he mute why is he dead too, why is this like that or why not or something altogether what, what the fuck Horace!?!?!?!? Hes finished.

I can do this, I can make it away, I can make it away, Vincent, Vincent, Vincent, Vincent, Vincent, hear, hear, Vincent, comb, Vincent, comb, shave, Vincent, mirror, Vincent, mirror, Vincent, mirror. Finished, early.

That is not, that is

not what

meant for.

That isnt what was

there

it

was

not

what?

FOLLOW

Finished, the girl in the truck smiling because of nothing and love and everything else and the friend crying because why and the biker dead because drugs and everything was not was necessary or anything at all because of a destruction of something smaller and scarier like a new found something and nothing else and differences and life and something else and change and father destined for salvation because the kid is dead. And the father crying and cleaning and arranging and thank you and thank you and thank you and thank you and thank you and thank you and thank you, goodbye goodbye goodbye goodbye. Thank you that was great and thank you and safe and safe and safe.

Alone. Vincent.

Scared.

Scream.

Hi. Hello. This is weird for me but I am here constantly and I know who you are and if you need something like a friend or something call me I know its weird but call me I knew Vin and he was amazing and..

Well if you ever need something call me, ok, heres my number, my phone number, call me if you want something you just you just call me, ok?

Crying from joy.

He was little and love.

He was

The pictures hurt now. Strange.

Hi. Hello? Mr. DiaCenzo? Hi, I want to see a movie at the mall with you. Sure.

This is nice, like Vincent was or should have been. Wow. Im getting to him soon and thats awkward. Man. And its so strange because he is not anywhere. Jesus. And its so different because his mom. His mom was like.? His mom is not anywhere, but she is dead. Vincent???

Seem.

Like.

Seem.

Horace pounding away different.

Ruminating on something deeper than the difference between some kind of altered reality and something that might be his own, he left himself or something different, and Scarsdale became something that had to be destroyed in his own imagination. When Horace chose for him, he felt like there was nothing that could change what seemed to be something that could be not finished, something that could not be final in any way at all. The things that mattered then were nothing at all. When he left, when Horace told him he must leave, when the keys made Mr. DiaCenzo walk out on his dream, he cried for a long time. The length was not continuous at all, it came and went in moments of total nothing. When that nothing came, it didnt feel like life anymore, it felt like something like absence. And when nothing was present, Horace made him go away. And that decision was real.

Is there anything I can make? What? Anything I can make that could help you at all? Sure thing, we got dishes in the back, scrub. Ok.

It wasnt that bad really, the signs were bright outside, the people were annoying and the waiters were waiting for a new life that had a chance, a glimpse, a glimmer that Mr. DiaCenzo felt could not be attained anymore, part of him was frightened. He loved and nothing else. He loved through his own form of absence, through his own feeling that his love, his emotion this feeling that ate and ate and ate and ate meant something greater than the nothingness, that this fault in his own center, was something that could be meaningful, maybe not in this world, but in some greater one, where what matters, where what matters, matters and matters and matters and it extends and clouds and clouds and clouds and clouds and ocean filled with everything and nothing from everything it is nothing and extending and loving and matters. The hands were moving all day, they kept busy they grabbed scrubbed moved grabbed scrubbed moved and left and a new job. Where is this? Its over there.

And a new job. Over there.

And a new job. Over there.

And four more jobs after that. Over there.

And never fired, just time ran out on Mr. DiaCenzo, he needed movement and life and feeling and dirt and cleaning and nothing and everything from nothing at all. And it worked and he felt important even though he was doing nothing but keeping his hands busy and his heart hurt so much and he would wipe and wonder and wipe and be like oh my god oh my god, it hurts like this? It really hurts like this? Vinny, Vin, Vin, I dont know you. Screaming in a vast array of clouds and dust and cleaning.

Screaming from nothing at all, he looked in front of him and didnt see his pain, he only felt it and that made it worse somehow, like its lack of realness made him hate himself for hurting so badly, but this is made to hurt.

And he died. Screaming and dying and sleeping and rolling over and the clock and the dying and dead and found and not buried, just put away, dropped, Santa Cruz cliff and cliff and cliff and dropped and down and down and dropping and dropping and dropping and dropped and in the ocean and in the ocean and in the ocean and in the ocean and dropped and dropped and dropped and dropped. And then there isnt anything at all, its Horace now, writing and wondering and creating and ultimately destroying everything he wanted to feel, and his parents and nothing else and feeling like a keyboard was real and feeling and wondering and escaping and feeling like there isnt anything else because of that. And when will that change, and when will that change, and when will that change, and why isnt there anything else to this and why isnt there anything to this and changing and nothing and nothing and changing and nothing and changing and finished because the dad died after the son.

Well, Im off.

Hes on.

When that was different so was everything else, and for those reasons nothing was anything at all and everything and disappearing and wondering and if and if and if and if and if and wondering and this is what and this is what and this is what and why. And creating. From that Horace began a new page, something that was meaningful and hopefully different but still it could not be but still it could be yes, and love comes and love goes but love remains because it takes on forms and things and people and death and life and nothing at all but everything seeming from something that was then but cannot be because it is too simple and love and this and love and this and love and this. And she overwhelmed him, and he did not know where or who or what it was, but it was so there and unconscious and deeper there than flirtatious nothingness and the fuss and the muss and the glance and the this and the that and everything else, it was so much fuller than that and he hoped and he hoped and he hoped and maybe and if and this and that and what else, and it could be might it not be and he was this and he was that and he was this and he was that but somehow moving and always moving and this and that and this that and then this and then thinking that and then this and why and love and love and love, and moving always moving and moving and creating and looking and writing and writing and looking and looking and writing and everything else that could be or was or had to be because he couldnt fucking wait to see her again, just for nothing at all. And when those aromas, those fragrances of passion and romantic nothing come fronting back after so much understanding and caring and leaving then what and then what and another and another and another until it becomes totally permanent like bread and water and nothing else, and Horace and Horace and Horace and her, together for a future that was uncertain and totally not possible at all, but the feeling was there and that mattered somehow and that meant something in some way but it wasnt quite it couldnt quite fit and that could just be fear and who knows and what else and love and this and that if it is meant to be it is and if it is not is not and in the patrol car. Hola, me llamo Satana. Hi, Horace. Hola.

Hi. Where? If? What? Oh. And? Why? Oh. And? That guy is dead. And if, maybe, why? Oh. Or, if it could be, when? And. And. And. And. And.

And it happens like that because of differences and dead sisters and life and change and options and nothing else and differences and things from other places that are strange and unrealistic and why is that and it could be and it just might be and forever and a place and things changing and why and this is that and what else and forever. And, like a force from some different place, these things are different and forever and things are from places like trees and trees and places and forever and why and this and that and this is real and why not and things are like nothing else, and these things seem to matter but they do not because of changes and things and evolving and matters and matters and matters and perspective and a totally new perspective and dealing and riding it out and dealing. For whatever reason it was different and painful and life and this and that and Mr. DiaCenzo was dead and Horace made that and his pain was real but made and his pain was real but made. And, the son was dead and the son was dead but Horace made it and that was ok, and the son was dying and that was ok too because Horace made it and that is Horace and Horace will always be Horace because of changes and nothing else at all. For. For if nothing else at all, the freshness of romance was felt again, and the newness of the female form became surreal and new and strange and awkward but somehow unbelievable at the same time, and to the see the face again, to kiss the face again, became something that he could not allow himself to cope with. His understanding that all love was ultimately futile made this transition so difficult, from one love to another but this time so real and close and real and close and she feels it too so it might not work again because in the end it wont but hopefully you can get a few months of joy

out of a beauty that is somehow so personal and not superficial and not anything at all but just present, after so much absence, after so much absence in the father in the father in the father, came something fresh and outstanding, like a vintage Pontiac, achieving something that was meaningful but pointless because of other reasons and difficulties and what more and what more and what more, and sadness because the former love is now gone, and complete and finished. And love endures and specializes and condones and what else and what else and what else and things and changes and loves and things and changes and loves and why not and why not and why not and go swimming Horace because its life and it needs to be swum not felt by some kind of jackarandic fecal matter of a soul that ultimately will die alone but hopefully inside of someone elses heart like Miriams. And love and pain and everything else and things and love and what else and things and love and what else and time defined by emotion and time defined by emotion because of transition and love and transition and love and new things and former things and new things and former things and why not and things and love and felt and new and new and felt and new and felt. Like a new shift of love and newness and love and somehow love and somehow love and she was in him again and she was in him again and how does that happen more than one time and how is love with one person not real and how is the feeling real but life is not and where is the dirt and the feet and everything else and where is those things that are meant to transition and feel and he leapt from his plane to her apartment and life began new and fresh and Mr. DiaCenzo rested. And Vin rested. And the pain of his everything was near.

Amigo. Disculpe me por favor. Basta amigo. Basta. Nuestros habitantes son de un cielo que no nos importan mucho, soy un hombre que disculpe a nadie y habla con nadie soy un hombre en transito un hombre que nadie puede comprender sin las mujeres solamente las mujeres me pueden comprender y entender y sentir my alma graciosa, amable, muy amable.

Gentle giant screaming frolicking understanding and swimming again and new and for and deciding and love and amor y me disculpen por un rato.

Un ratito.

And

The violation of so many altercations and misrepresentations of something pure and reasonable and never again and forever and jesus and jesus and everything else and nothing and steaming and forgetful and whatever and whatever and whatever and whatever and for this and for that and for this and for that and what else is that and what else is this and forever and jesus and nothing and nothing and nothing and jesus and forever and jesus and jesus and jesus. Central, like jesus walking like jesus and forgetful like jesus and everything else like jesus and nothing else like jesus and jesus and jesus and he cant save anybody because Horace was not the type to save he was the type to write and everything else and nothing else because of life and everything else and nothing else because of life and everything else and these things and those things and those things and these things and forever like cinnamon and what else. And what? Say it.

Please say it. Please. Please. Vin. Please say it. Say. I love you. I love you.

I love you.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I cannot forget, I will not forget.

And duty.

Wont.

And from the awareness that something was changing but somehow still similar made this transition, this sort of awareness altogether impossible, because of large changes, from Sams Cooke to others made things like this extremely difficult, even reductive because of what they mean or meant or anything else, and the love that transitioned could not be felt again, but newness is newness and life is life and flowers are real. What happened after that point cannot be anything at all because the feeling that things are not for real or anything at all, the fallacy of a love is that it cannot grow again, but some, Horace, stick to the belief that life is alterable and nothing else. And the awareness, the growing awareness, that a world outside of the self, distant from the self but still right by it, made the world tolerable, even enjoyable. When that change occurred, Mr. DiaCenzo was already in the sea, drifting living where most life is, and drifting off because his head destroyed him, and Horace was really dead, and the keys were his opportunity for resurrection, but he could not, he would not no, he dare not, bring his characters into life. He could not because they were dead, and what is dead is gone and nothing changes that because of differences and hate and everything else that somehow mattered, because of changes and other things as well. What mattered most at that point was a dispersion of belief and understanding and everything else like a plague or a distant feeling that things mattered because of something outside of Horace. He didnt matter in any real way, inside of himself, his thoughts, his resurrections, his hopes, his wonders, everything, all of that

FINAL Horace ran away that year because his character died and the father died and what else is there, and his home was empty, chandeliers and burgundy, and carpets and wood and blue beds and passivity and writing and the bathroom and a kitchen and what? And a hole in his heart. And discovering that his void had no point, that his void was something entirely different, that the way things moved now, they could never be again. And life drifted along like that because of things that needed to be the way they were and whatever else they would be again, and dreaming and everything else and different things like that. Like a love that means something that actually means something like a love that changes and everything else and love and differences and differences and everything else and these things and other things and differences and the wall was not there and everything else and the wall and the sheets and the smell and the carpet and the wall and his fridge and the whiteness on the walls and the poster and the white wall escaping but calling and licking and him seeing it but feeling the buzzards of light that intrude on his sanity.

What made this paranoia something different was its utter intrusion it was not real and therefore felt like snow and the chapel above the white white snow and the white white sidewalk and Horace loving but not feeling it and loving but dismissing and loving but not quite feeling anything at all and the sky like that and the sky like that and the sky what? Blue and grey and the clouds back into his room with the television and soccer and its a league and its a league and soccer pass pass pass pass and maybe gol but usually not gol and a movie and nothing else. And passing on and drifting along and neither this but this and that and forever but not and a love that is and could not have and love and nothing and not anything at all because of differences of loving and changing and even discovering of a new form of repentance. Let this be me. You are his. And. There is no anything. How is that. There is not anything. Where is that. Challenge me. Hate it. Challenge me. Hate it. Do not challenge you. Breathe, exhale. Love me. No. Exhale. Breath. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale.

I cannot breathe here. Breathe here. I cannot breathe here. Breathe here. Breathe here. Im breathing here.

Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin. Awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy. Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin. Awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy. Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin. Awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin. Awaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy.

And a new beginning.

Love. Love. Love.

Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love.

Blaming life on the detail, the monument, the expectation of why life was lead in a certain way and why it was unavoidably altered so that the life that was necessary could have reawakened in another form. The necessary vacancy of a life that was supposed to have lived for itself and into itself and forever was not lead, and cut off and that was that. The focus, the fork, the knife, the absolute finality of life after love was deemed inappoporiate, especially since the pain was love. Destroying denial is not easy. In accusation of love and its qualities, there is not one aspect of life that is real. The main function of day to day existence is to distract the soul from the fundamental pain that is loss. Accepting pain is ignoring, ignoring it is living inside of its memory. The fullness of mind and smell. Thought of love and its qualities cannot love or exact anything. The main real, or lack of life, is not anything but a love. The distraction. The aside. The focus of nothingness. The stars of the lack. The joy of loneliness. The sorrow of company. The pain of loneliness. The joy of her thought, her memory, her taste and skin. The joy is real so the loss cannot exist. Unfortunate in its destruction.

One person.

One person.

One person.

One person.

One person.

The one person. One person.

POST The one person that named herself joy was impeccable and glorious, and her hair was sandy, and she was called Olive. And the joy of her persona made his tragic existence somehow more than tolerable, even happy. And when happiness is achieved and made in certain circumstances and situations and everything else that lends itself to progress rather than chance. The aspect of relativity, of true love and hope and connection and everything else is that love has no chance in the world today. That love, for son or daughter, for wife or lover, cannot be realized in its internal form. Love, when banished to the mind and heart and loins, cannot understand itself, it needs that soulmate in order to be free, and when love is free, so is the mind. And when the mind is free, nature exists in the soul and bliss is real.

The exact produce of affection and generosity is a car, is a steamed window, is an encounter with hate and affection. And the exact replica of nature is that life is not what it has to be. Life somehow becomes something deeper and more meaningful that it should. Somehow, the tragic emptiness of loss makes life seem like it matters and that makes its void so much more excruciating. With happiness, with joy, the fickle thunder of existence is a ballgame, and love is theater. And the actor is funny. Tragedy brings acting to the painful banner of reality. With these understandings and tolerable givings comes a new fortune realized through pain and sanity. With sanity comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes the disciple, comes Horace. Horace could not understand his murder or the murder of the others. In fact, he could understand nothing at all. His mind was worthless, a garbage heap of exclamation points. His reality was in his fingers, his teeth, and his steering wheel. And his open road was massive, bigger than his sleek imaginative tragedy.