I keep waiting for the time when I can finally say
That this has all been wonderful, but now I’m on my way.
When I think it’s time to leave it all behind,
I try to find a way to, but there’s nothing I can say
To make it stop.
- Phish, “Down With Disease”
“And I’m tired of making friends
And I’m tired of making time
I’m sick to death of love
And I’m sick to death of trying”
- Old 97s, “Salome”
The brass ring blurs by until it is just a streak, a forgotten part of the scenery. I’m not just tired of this ride; the whole theme park bores me to death.
Everywhere the bombs are falling, the deus ex machina solution for stories we are too lazy to finish. They are falling outside the window, blossoming like exploding hearts. A bomb falls into my cereal bowl and the cold milk splashes across my face, waking me up.
I finished the puzzle the other day. Damn thing took years to sort out. When it was done I went and superimposed it over the vacant lot. Now it is a welcoming scene of a park, with people moving in and out. Someone is flying a kite on the other side of a hill. Children are playing near the fountain.
At home there is another puzzle. There is always another one.
While I was tacking down some new carpet in the foyer I saw the gymnasium slide past the door. People I had never seen before were poking about the free weights. That explains the leftovers in the fridge.
Before leaving I double-checked the tripwires and the pressure in the helium tanks. Something scratched and mewled behind the boudoir door. Best leave that for the guests to find.
Got an encrypted message this morning from an agent at Cambridge. They are already working on an app to track the guests online. Excellent.
Had to go over to the compound today for a bit of consultation. Showed Jimmy my “magic eyeball.” He’s not too thrilled with the idea of having to replace all the retinal scanners. When I told him they’re as popular as Gameboys in Shinjuku and all the hep cats have ‘em on their keychains, well… he just about flipped.
Anyhow… I wasn’t there to rap with Jimmy. Gossard wanted my opinion on the enzyme micro-tracers they were field testing at Hot Topic. When the natural oils in a customer’s fingertips came in contact with the ink on their receipt, the tracers activated. Brilliant. Now I can watch little pulses of light move from Coronado down to the Pulse and then back to soccer mom’s house in the heights.
The syndicate had moved the transmitter once again. Almost lost the breadcrumb trail this morning and ended up on the right side of town. I punched in the GPS coords, timestamped the packet and got out of there. Half an hour later the slot in the restroom of Dunkin Donuts spooled out a message: “Hope is the last train leaving the station. Faith says you can catch it.”
In her presence language abandoned me and I became a stare, a gaping child. I could sense the flames in the next room licking their way up the curtains, but I didn’t care. Someone has stolen a fantasy of mine and installed it in an apartment here in town…
I see that the Granite Industries knock-off has once again tracked me down to this site. He even tried to create an account in my name. Fortunately my countermeasures were successful and he’s been blocked. His photo still shows up, though, which could prove confusing to other people.