Brooklyn is stuck in a corner in the basement. She can’t get out. She’s crumpled like a mantis—and you don’t want to get too close. Her makeup is running, eyes are black. And her fingernails scratching the wall.
And the basement’s crumbling. Every time she touches it. Crumbling sand, the sides of the house, stuck together with glue that this sideways girl is scraping apart with her hands.
Fluorescent light—trying not to step on anything—and getting closer and closer to this girl, my friend—what happened to you? Were you frightened? Did you see something from the beyond? Or is that just sometimes how trips go? Yeah. Sometimes, that’s just how they do.
A step closer.
Reaching out for her—wherever she is.
She swaps the hand away. She is crumbling, she is tearing down, bleeding from the brain, and spine wild—electric kat. I can see the flashes within her, can see her brain without a net, high-wiring, possibly melting down. You can sometimes get out of this but usually—not.
"Brooklyn."
When she opens her mouth to speak it’s like a demon.
Slow-mo..siphon..wind.
She takes me in like a spider.
Aching.
Away from the planet.
Lost.
There was a body here.
No more.
In blackness.
Space.
Reality was all a lie.