Some people believe that when you die you come back as something else. Maybe you come back and everything starts over again. Maybe you end up on some cosmic game show or you reread a novel you hate/love for eternity. Like Gatsby. Nothing but Gatsby.
Maybe when you huff video head cleaner you see other universes. Maybe you burn synapses. Whatever you do, it's temporary. Just enjoy the sounds. Get on the ride.
Maybe every time you jizz a baby dies. That would be fucked up, but it would ease some of our environmental issues. I didn't think that; you thought that.
Maybe there's change in the couch cushions. Been a while since I checked - probably since the last time I was short on beer money. I don't harass the furniture anymore.
Let me open a door. Bring a sweater; it's chilly.
There is a white carpet in the center of a dark, blood-red room. Strip club red. The carpet is smooth, ironed. In the center of the carpet there is a pool of dark liquid. You can't tell what color it is, and you're afraid to find out. The puddle holds lies and betrayals and disappointment. The puddle is filled with broken dolls and deflated balls, and you're fucking terrified.
You tell yourself it's nothing, but you don't know. You try to think about something nice - a summer afternoon that you didn't fuck up by drinking. The first time you kissed someone and your teeth clicked and you laughed. You end up sitting in the corner, arms around your knees, muttering to yourself: they won't get inside if you don't let them. They won't let you inside if you don't get them. They'll never understand why you can't stand the sound of metal scraping. Your teeth ache. You become infantile.