You are driving. Imagine being inside a slaughterhouse. This shellmetal rally, your tin scraping and the sun heating your trash. All the trash you scattered and played in like a bear. Imagine being inside a slaughterhouse? When the music gets louder it makes your head hurt. The light hurts when your paper is ripped. You black out. Wake up on the toilet in the slaughterhouse.
Once you turned into a metal shell. You became afraid, blacked out and woke up on the toilet. Then you were in the slaughterhouse. Now you aren't afraid so much anymore. You understand you are the hoard: the chipped crusted plates, you; the crushed cans and the old dust and mildew and dried shaving cream crusted on the bottom of the bathroom mirror, you; the broken popcorn machine from the dumpster that has been left in the backseat of your car for almost a year, you. What else could he have meant when he said become everything? And who said that, Alan Watts?
You are driving faster. You might lose control of the broken place your finger finds on the wheel, the metal you can touch and which burns your fingerprints off in the hot summers. The man asks you to imagine being inside a slaughterhouse; he is yelling. Your father is concerned. You explain that you are speaking in metaphor. You told yourself not to take acid, but now you might; a few nights ago you sat in the bath googling HGH.
Imagine a slaughterhouse. You dream of drinking the blood, your ethical private vampire. Who can you be? The object of your fixation cannot play in trash. You are surrounded by trash. The pit will continue to bleed you until morale improves. You may feed until your hips ache.