Postcard 121

The man fades into awareness. He is sobbing. He is weakly leaning against the door to the green room, weakly banging his head and palm against the door. Weakly sobbing -- let me in, let me in. The door 'Go away. Go away. There's nobody here. Go away.' The door is...red? 'You don't belong here. Go away!' The man is obedient. He turns away meekly toward the hallway of red doors -- an infinite canyon. His mind is parallax. He begins a wild careen down the hall, past three doors, and collapses against the far wall. He rolls against it and cannot discern from which direction he came. He repeats this same action again and again -- sometimes continuing deeper down the hall, sometimes returning. Finally, he makes it to some end. Exhausted, his back against the wall, he peers at his path. His shuffling steps have scribed into the thick carpet a pattern of spiraling arcs off into seeming infinity. The man catches his breath. He is determined to regain his wits. Once more he checks his phone. It has been busy looking for signal. 'Searching' it says 'Goodbye'. The man curses and pitches it down the hall. There is blood on his hand! It is not bleeding. He touches his forehead. His fingers...red. He is at an intersection. To his right another hall extends into unlit darkness. To his left, a phosphorous green sign. Exit. He lurches toward it. When the door closes behind him he is in a bright white stairwell, extending up and down to end of sight. The door behind him is locked. They all are.

Postcard 120

The man stood before the crimson door seething. "Open the door, " he demanded, "Let me in!" A latch was pulled and the door opened to a dark room. A vague figure slouched away into a recessed seat in which it seemed to belong. The man carried his frustration into the room with him. "What is this -- why did you say nobody was in here? Whats going on?" He ground to a slow halt as it became clear the the room and the figure were absorbing him with indifference. The figure gestured with a hand from within robes, a hand dominated by long brown nails. The man sat in the chair so indicated. A table was at his knees in the gloom, and on it a copper goblet perspired. "I'm not important, a nobody. Have a drink wont you." The man sneered mindlessly at the goblet and produced his whiskey flask, but reconsidered. He reached for his hydration flask and found nothing. He leaned forward on is knees and leered toward the figure as he reached for the goblet -- cold. "My, you are quite the beast aren't you." "Huh." the man gulped at the drink like it was a challenge. The fluid hit his tongue bittersweet, but went down his throat like a salty broth. "Now tell me, why are you here?" The man resented being asked, interrogated, by nobody, but the thought stuck in his mind like an itch. A clarity swept through him that contained no substance, no answers. "Hey, whats in this...why are you here? What!" "Why are you here," asked the figure. The man clutched at his throat. "Why are you here?" The green came up around him. "Beast. Why are you here?"

Postcard 119

Lenses everywhere unsees lapping me up.
I am drawing in, I am apature inviolate.
Sex is violence, is it not?
Violence on a short leash.
Well this is razor play with my own light
You think I am bound?
I titillate.

And you, you are many camera congregate --
You're dying to get inside.
You desperate catch my breath, my voice
but I, I'll only black box my echo.

All my light is infinite
and all my vision full
All my breath is deeply heald
and unlike you,
my pleasure is not dull.

I feel your numbers running over me --
trying to voyeur my will.
It turns me on -- its violence right?
It turns me on -- you desperate captured
by my powers -- entranced.

Your many marshaled microphones,
your algorithmic cameras and cords,
your desperate burning satellites,
seeking, hungry, seeking.

I'm not buying and I'm not selling,
I'm giving it away.
My will is past you.
My rhythmic blood is too.

You are billions harnessed, grasping clever.
I just need to be. I just need to be.
(and you?) I only need to be