Love and Other Schizoids by Sam Hasell

I found my therapist at 3am, yakking wine up in the toilet bowl. She’s crying and I’m laughing and we’re all down for kicking on. She tells me stories, which I label as delusions, but grandeur, that’s my type of drug. These days it’s all about consumption and we’re very rarely sober, playing dice-games with the gods in a universe preplanned — I won’t pretend to understand my place or time but I know the rules to play these games, the curtains up and lights come on and there’s nought to do but dance. Now I’m the one that’s vomiting, spewing lies like last night’s dinner; it’s funny how the hint of truth tastes something just like basil. We run our heads straight into walls of bricks, love and fuck and scream and fight, the greatest minds of our generation slowly vegetate to mush. ‘I’m gonna walk on Mars one day,’ the way she says it, I believe her…

She’s bumping cocaine like a spaceship, desperate to lift off.

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