Staring up into the beast made his head spiral around his body. That queasy push, forcing its way around his intestine. It was coming right down on top of him, and he realized how hilarious it would be crushed by something he created. Another dead architect lying in the street.

out there somewhere in the streets: your identity.

These kids were about 16, maybe even younger. Doesn’t matter. In this city, at this hour, we are all equals. If it were 3 pm, we would walk by, not even noticing the other, despite a casual wary eye contact. But now, we chat. There is something about 3 am on a Friday night or Saturday morning that allows skipping normal social preparation before engaging in conversation.
"You see this girl right here?" He points to a young innocent blond with a "boy watch" shirt and a diagonal backpack strap dividing up half of her body to each of her small breasts. "150 dollars, and you can have ALL of that." He grinned, and she shyly giggled. Maybe with the appropriate lighting, her face would have tinted red. Actually there were two of them. One was more promiscuous appearing than the other, but essentially they where identical. Two little white girls in the big city, hanging out with their imaginary pimps, getting into trouble. Another friend comes out from the background and offers up the same girl for 50 bucks. What a curious retail strategy. There’s a tattoo half way down her belly obstructed by the presence of tight low cut jeans. Now there’s a sale, 2 for the price of one. Buy one, get one 30 percent off. Is there no better parody of capitalism than fake juvenile prostitution? We are not pedophiles here, we are sociologists. Studying a culture which long ago forgot its reason for grinding ahead. These kids dropped out of high school. We’re graduated, and graduating, from college. And yet here we are, 3:30 am in love park on a Friday night or Saturday morning. The only thing separating us is that you are standing over there, and I over here. And even that distinction is an arbitrary one.
"Okay, 50 cents! Come on that’s a good deal." Laughter sprinkles out into the empty roads of a sleeping city.

He stepped forward confidently and surely, the taste of alcohol on his breath, some residue memories still kicking around inside. There was the time she patted his shoulder gently at the restaurant. They had sex on a futon in new jersey, it was incredible. He still has the stings of her fingers pulling his hair by the roots. Slipping his hands around curves that were completely unrecordable by mathematicians. This was his dream. Back in the real world he had slipped on a checkered shirt and stepped outside. He was creating his own dream from scratch. He had nothing to go on. And no disillusionments, the alcohol had killed it. He was completely guilt free.
And nothings more dangerous than a brain with out inhibition.

due to some miscalculation in rate of decent, or perhaps a more careless error involving improper use of algebraic math, the craft set its flat belly down in the middle of philadelphia streets, right among the pedestrians and irritated taxi drivers, the harsh yellow light reflecting off the rims of tinted prescription glasses and rusty car hoods.
april 6th: among screaming voices and shaking fists, first contact was made.

mapping patterns railroad tracks straight down spiral leading up to the edge of the nucleus of the brain. interior membrane light shining in particles/waves fractals radiating 360 degrees and out. snap center core position click.

He would sit in a rocking chair and tell jokes to the other half of his brain. The fire chuckled schizophrenically as jagged balls of heat ricocheted off the walls. Family members would come in and ask him who he was talking to, but he dismissed them with an almost spastic string of words. Accused them of not reading enough books, and leaned further into the nervous jaws of the glowing beast. Not enough charcoal he commented, and he had almost eaten half a bag of the dark mineral before his family could restrain him.

brutally depicted in classical films, at night the beetle would roll onto his back and contemplate cruelty in the media, and fantasize giving rousing speeches to the most intellectually impressive audiences. they would coo and applaud, and afterwards, invite him to their houses to entertain house guests and charm their daughters. sometimes, he would deny their request, waving his hand and coyly tucking his little beetle head to his shoulder, peeking just to see their reaction. For sure he was vain and repugnant, but he sensed anything was better that being a simple beetle. Then one day...

it was so calm we didn't even realize we were over our heads until it was over us. and even then we didn't care. we were completely focused on the moment that the parts not visible were simply not there. like a child who can not think outside of the crib we giggled and traced the ridges of the clouds with our finger tips. young artists in a museum of aged and ageless paintings. maybe it was just a feeble attempt to take credit for the art that was carving its way through the sky. maybe it was ours to begin with.

Creeping back up his vertebrae like retrograde memory loss.
splattered fear across the kitchen floor.
he can feel little claws at the back of his brain, ticking again. Its happened. That chemical smell back on his breath and stinging his eyes. The reaction is a specific one, with no room for free will, no room for mercy.
The flies drip down in crisscross patterns, and his shadow glistens black on the floor with a look that feels disturbingly familiar.

they curved around her body, slowly edging towards the cortex. she knew something was off beat, with their refrigerator moan humming, brushing up against fibers, delicate snap switches setting off alarms in the echoing halls of her eardrum. somewhere along the line, hands would freeze up, subservient reflexes in a panic scenario, doing their duty. but this is all just mild pandering for the children. any foreign animal with intellectual instinct would know better. so in seeing beyond the fogged up eyes, they understood her ill intentions and gave her one last pass, then let her be.

he never felt so lucky.
passed out on the edge of a clean counter.
straight ticket to 10 minutes in wonderland.
a free unlimited pass stored right where you'll never forget it at home.
rollercoasters and gargantuan swing sets, all clicking cogs set to the beat of the defibrillator.
one, two, three, clear-
little sparkling stars remind him where he's been, but everyone else seems needlessly excited.

Darkness, and it slithered up to him, flickering edges, wrapped around warped circular vision, pausing
...
just like paused video cassette moments, where jarred lines quake in anticipation, in cocky self confidence.
He hurtles into the bathroom- flick the wrist. Snapshot, retina burnt dilation, expanding the edges of the room in a fiery white crescendo.
Like the pillow soft wallpaper of the asylum, safe at last.