originstories

That Nebraska is the smell of coffee in the Great Hall,

a brunch underway beneath it in Fellowship Hall,

the smell of stale helium from a history of basketballs

on the dusty wood echoes in the old gymnasiums

in the way basement by bell choir

where I lifted several heavy bass notes.

I can't really remember the cold war though

or Nostradamous but I moved on from my

first crush in the 90s, got over it with David Duchovny's

monotone eyes and the male middle part of every

darkhaired boy. My 96-97 diary was a fat slice, widening

out from its binding with all the pasting in and his faces

taped everywhere. I think probably his personae was my first exposure to

conspiracy. I wanted to be an FBI agent already after Jodie Foster,

I think if for the stories. It's impossible to know

when I first saw Silence of the lambs but I remember

my Dad vividly telling me the entirety

of Se7en later on in the night in 95 when they'd seen it in theaters.

If you investigate the species

and the histories, the bees still figure

in to our legend significantly,

as a sign of the end times

even. I suppose some people deal with always dying by sublimating

their own mortality awareness. Mortality conciousness?

Their being mortality-conscious. Some people opt to sublimate that,

project the anxiety of it, the fears

elsewhere passionately—ends are terrifying.

In and of themselves. True.

And shit could certainly get like that out there.