My dressing room is a basement where the heating pipes leak until early March. The Internet Superstar loves Spring's warm enclose.
At work I am one with the machine. After the spiritual blight of day I return home to ascend from rubble into the pixellated firmament of Internet Message Boards. Constellations rise from every word I type. A Superstar strolls, bashful as a Deus Absconditus, midst the common folk of town. My secret is guarded fervently as Holy Men keep vigil over Sacred Relics. The strain of living this masterpiece erodes my spine.
No comments:
Post a Comment