Tonight, Matthew
Thirty-something and — shit! —
Windows is shutting down — again with the lag and tidings. If I don’t have a name for it, how do I recover? Maybe I should push more. But then I see the riverbank sluiced in red from the sacrificial high season. I can’t get on board with that, no siree! Artistic men standing by with their motivations and fashionable facial hair. Me? I prefer a “I grew up like this” aesthetic for my unsuccessful auditions. Thirty-something and — what’s that crash scene up over the horizon? When I grow up, I’ll impress the world with how calmly I can walk away from exploding cars/buildings/spaceships. My life story will fill pages and pages of Google search results — instant proof I’ll neither confirm nor deny when the time comes to sell out. Instead, I suggest you hunt through secondhand stores looking for my obscure inspirations and give new life to Goosebumps® reading lights. I’m going to fuck it up. (Don’t fuck it up.) I guess I’ll sit here silently in the name of art. Has someone written a book about that? Thirty-something and ivy adding class to ambition. The walls are fit for purpose, but the sky is not. Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to disappear into the dark side of the stage. Tonight, I’ll just watch.
|