Those guys. Those Mongrel guys.
Those Mongrel guys and their fancy-pants feature.
What's with those guys?
Who are those guys?


Who do they think they are?
Who gave them the right?
How dare those guys.
Oooooh.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Keep missing echos. Miss 'em bad sometimes.
Two wrong turns took us back down into the valley so we stopped for a smoke in the cemetery by the abyssion sills. Every time we go we look to see if anybody's left anything new on the graves. Wilted flowers, bleached photographs, plastic saviors of every shape and color melted in the sun, all the same in different ways.
***** found a mirror and killed it. Typical. Says won't stop until they pay but frankly the mirrors have been more than fair. Don't see them trying to break ***** but we don't agree on this. ***** on this hemophile fad, trailing the cool kids so no sense in rationalizing a clot. No sense at all, laid back against a hunched stone angel shifting in soft mud under my weight, sticking, watching ***** twirl through the tall grass trailing blood like Pollack in or on ecstasy, like sprinklers on timers in backyards in abandoned cities. Paints the tombstones polka-dot, tires out and collapses on the ossuary door, unhinged and tangled in moss.
Unhinged, tangled in moss. Says it so it is.
Every time we come down here more tombs are broken.
I don't know what's getting in.
I don't know what's getting out.

Love,
the dead minotaur

It's been a long and lonely May, but Mongrel's just sent word about their first feature-length production, The Roomies.
What's the word?
"Apricot."
I know, I had to think about it too.
There's also this thing. This thing shaped like some sort of production blog thing.



But I guess apricot pretty much sums it up.
Also, Quinn's been looking into things. Come see about things.



And that's about it. How are you? I hope you are good.
I hope you are too good.
I hope it's unbearably good.
Better, even.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Listening idly as the wind flits through my skull, caresses the lobes and whistles raunchily.
Gives me chills. And I needs 'em. Shakes the dust free.
There is a cord that runs behind the curtain up to a macrophone just behind my left ear. There was a time when I'd hear it crack-pop-sizzle to life once a day and recite my instructions for the moment. When my tasks are finished, it's back to the wind, that saucy wind, and the tickle of time dragging itself over me like snails on parade.
But these days the snails merely loiter.
Apparently Mongrel's too busy for me.
You heard about this THE ROOMIES thing, right?
It's like their new baby.
And I'm like their old baby.
What do you do with old babies?
You never see old babies on the streets, just the soft pinky mooshy new factory models.
Don't recycle me like an old baby.
Don't give me to poor people to wear or consume.
Okay do that to me.
That sounds kinda hot.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Don't give me that look.



I do not want it.
Keep it.
Please.
Keep it from me.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Generally, this whole concept of inner and outer selves as separate, contrasting elements has done more harm than good. In a broader sense we have the mass delusion that there is some division between the end of our skin and the space beyond, the environment that births and envelops and consumes us. As if the world around us were some other, some alien thing we've intruded upon and loiter around until our inevitable eviction.
The misconception that you are all alone, buried in your bag.



But the bag is you! All the bags are you!
It's all one bag!
There is no bag!

Love,
the dead minotaur

Things drop through on occasion. You catch the sparks in your peripheral in time to watch the sky rip.
Like waves crashing in reverse.
Something over the hills has a glow, you never notice until it reflects off the froth spilled from atmospheric entry.
Wonder what that's all about.
***** says she met a guy, says he came right out the sky. Broke his fall in the Ivory Tars where he'd be to this day if it weren't for an edlergunt with eyes bigger than its mouth. ***** says he left his skin in the clouds and he pointed it out to her and she thought she saw it but wasn't sure.
Frankly, I'm not sure about *****.
If some skin's in the clouds it's only
because she put it there.
And we will
never ever
get it out.

Love,
the dead minotaur