On Expo and Parry.

On expo and parry, I watched the world end.
An everyday apocalypse, it painted the world bright and surreal, giving the air a taste of intimacy, bathing us in the angry rays of a nuclear sunset.
Bright eyed hipsters and moody vagrants lounge about, unsure of their own beauty that blinds the passing crowds who come here to stare at these alien gods.
We take sacrament of alchemical concoctions and blessed herb and offer our prayers to our many temples of ultimate beauty and worship each other in beautiful blasphemy, happy in our sacrilege
Seeking even greater highs, I prick my skin with the same oils I paint with and reimagine myself as an ancient warrior priest and dance wildly to the throbbing music that constantly plays so as to drown out the cries of distant wars.
In an oasis of peace, miny wars are fought with passive aggressive taunts and childish proclamations, always striving to hurt, but fearful of actual violence.
In the shadow of Hiroshima, left without a world, we created our own, armed with paint, brushes, LSD and MDMA.
In our little corner of the plastic city, memories are like currency, to be hoarded, while men in suits try to rebuild and forget.
We found the singularity in a cast iron pation chair, redemption in a Pabst and a reason to live to in one shiny moment when everything feels like its gonna be OK.