The written word, music, visual arts. These, if done well, are the unconscious sneaking past the curtain. Using language to self-implode Logic. Some real Matrix shit.

He liked to change it up enough so that I couldn’t have his pastry ready with his coffee and then he’d have more time to try and converse with me, an extra joke or two. 

In the black screen, I watched M undress me slowly.

I wanted to cry.