how overlooked is a rubble

though she and i are nearly built alike

i mean scientifically it’s all stardust,

rubble and i.

but how unfortunate is she

to not feel awe and suicidal

what a beautiful thing it is

to feel awe and suicidal

and i don’t mean suicidal in a deep way-

just the autonomy, the sheer power

to hold that choice

is it not the ultimate magic trick?

one that works even when the secret is revealed

this mesh called brain

is, at its core, veins and pulses

just mesh and blood and water and veins

that makes me hungry,

makes me horny,

makes me act like an asshole.

and suddenly it’ll decide to play your film

eating french fries and rice

not too rarely, not too voluntarily.

it is my mesh of veins, yes

but i didn’t ask for this film

and i don’t necessarily want to watch it now-

but cannot leave this cinema

and it could be the weather.

it probably is.

but it is not just-

It’s not only the cold

when the projectionist sitting in the projection room goes rogue

he plays for himself

he plays only what he wants to see

too tired of seeing films for the other

for the critique or for the mass

for studios to clear, for producers to sell

he plays

and so i watch

without choice i watch

and it is not that i am sad to see you

yes, if i could change channels i would

but i am not—really—sad, as i watch

i still am happy

just cold

and i don’t have more clothes to put on

so i let the god damn projectionist have his moment