I can't decide which is my favorite line. Maybe you can help.
I have been held captive for a long time now. Within this lonesome confine, cubed bowel stacks dripping feeble blood and loose stool, my memory has rotted into nothingness. I am not sure of anything really. However, I do know the wind and he is a cruel unrelenting tyrant. I know the passing seasons, which mock in snow and heat and skip like children from an open window. And ultimately I know numbness, for it is the only emotion I have left.
I have been violated, editor. I have been stripped of decency and civilization. I have witnessed atrocities of snake-skinned cowards intimidating my sanity with cattle prods of false justice. They claim to be kings, they claim to be immortal, they claim to be God himself; they claim to hold some key of escape. There is no escape. There is only a torrent of sorrow banished to the crushed, impotent clouds. I have lost my anger. I have lost my way. Somewhere in the streets, a shadow of my former self is carrying groceries back to my wife, Emila. Dearest Emila, my forgetful queen. I cannot stop licking my ripped lips, hoping to somehow recall her scent. I shake my hair, to a snow of lice, hoping to have one of her precious blond curls magically float back to me. Though, as you may have already guessed, I can only sit and murmur madness to bridge walls, begging cyclists for answers.
I have been ruined, editor, by an infestation of demonic queen ants. They kick bastard children out their sloppy holes of twisted pubic smut, who slip down the curbed streets of glass shards. I once ran to a bloodied fetus, yet it was too late. He had grown a hunch-back and hobbled to the flames, which licked the dirty hands of bums. He acquired a taste for curse words and the humiliation of alcohol. Child, I cried, this is yours! This city is yours! He just laughed and ignored me, calling me fool. My name is Ornelo is said to the cement, Ornelo.
Ultimately editor, I have been held captive by this city of thieves.
It is time we take a long look in the mirror and evaluate our morals. We must ask, champion editor, "Where is the light?" Editor, man of words, are you righteous? For I have watched your papers float around this city, yet somewhere a pipe still emits oil, polluting the impressionable youth with STDs. I see the WW publication on the faces of internet prostitutes, closing their eyes for another hit, one more toke of meth. Do you smoke meth, editor, man of honor? Are you a man of high esteem? If you are, we must crush the jockey, riding Mr. Money's horse, who starves the body of truth.
I am a desperado. I have masturbated outside death's window, while he studied for his finals. Soy Antonio Benderas. I am what your publication needs, monoxide, sweet blissful monoxide shushing though a plane of crying children. There is no need to look up at that 3-am ceiling, a loathsome abyss of isolation. You are not alone, I can help you. Together we can mold this 10 year-old into a golden archer, soaring through the clouds on the back of a bald eagle, piercing a soul-less night into magnificent constellations of hope.
From ground zero, a noble sword,
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