The Crackpipe
My crack pipe is digital and fibrous and reflects light, a trillion tiny messages packed up neat as you like and shot-thought out, across space and time. My crackpipe comes in flavors, blue and white lasers, reticulated star-gazers and the cost is steep. The High Animal, ribald in his hopes for godlessness, sweats and shits in a mirrored landscape, scurries for shelter, without God we’ve just Mommies Little Helper.
She pulled a hit from the swirled-glass creation, the acrid chemical smoke drifting lazily from her upper lip, curling around, obscuring a tiny mole before sneaking into her nostril to run through her pulmonary system again. Each pass the smoke grew weaker, thinner, as her body absorbed it instead of precious air. Eyes half open, once pale-blue now blazed a noxious red. Her ears rang.
It was a painful need, that nagging desire always in the back of her mind, always chewing away at her dreams and goals, a dull blade knocking chips, spark and all, from so fragile self-respect.
As the pain receded and she slunk back into the warm arms of Forget, she was betrayed by her eyes and a tear fell.
My crackpipe has grown, transformed over the years, from simple knowledge to data to rampant seething, patterns. The crack pipe shattered and shivered when knowledge wasn’t enough. The patterns began to go wild, expanding and growing growing like interlaced vines. A fractal that cannot be mastered, cannot be wholly viewed in instant. As she wished for the pattern, I wished for the smoke.
