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