Will Baker
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In the night club

I lean over the sink in the bathroom and watch the glass vibrate me into something softer but more immediate. My mouth is dry as though I’ve been speaking, the way a muscle is weaker unworked. I feel the sub through all my contacts, but more in my bellwether guts, these slick spinning pouches in dead and polluted sunset hues which bounce with anatmospheric velocities through blood somehow classically scarlet and default web green, DVD player screensaver endocrinology. Above the sub a gaussy whorl of antialiasing importunement cedes and grades with the dumb blunt hashes of a detuned rotary against a flat wet rubber which misconducts the choir into sixth echo returns, returning all at once, a discharged battery of billions. O billions. The billions on my skin, skinny billions skinning billions, my softer skin, me more immediate. The door opens and everything is just a song again and a woman takes this chance to ask why I’m in here and I explain I used to be a whatever boy with static pages full of killers and killeds scattered on my bed, floor, whatever, and that I am now a whatnever man with a desk that extends to both walls, covered in a desperately clinical tessellation of dynamic pages full of lovers and money-lovers who live so good it hurts me in unnamed places. The woman laughs and then uses the bathroom and then kisses me and then leaves and then the door closes. And then more above the sub a gay seraphic boomerang tears the balm and forth from it a hot blue open of precisely terrifyingly yes exactly thank billions exactly and forever exquisitely this yes—and then cooling, and then closed, and then no, and then what.