I am diaphilactic. I am sophorus, I am hollow and dripping, I am an empty shell of a person filled disenuous philanthropy, and it’s bleeding out of my throat, my eyes, ears and teeth. I am not porous, and I hold your ideas as tightly as I hold on to the computer chips we ate last week. I claim them as my own, sometimes, when I think I can get away with it, and sometimes, I can, even though your thoughts have become as widespread as my emotions – they wrap around North America and spiral into the south Pacific, lost in waves until they wash up on the shore of South Korea, where they will help no one.
September 15, 2009