2003 I'm thinking but the only memories I can uncover are false- some unidentity that weaves between my insides and swarms through the mucus and the blood. It's biting, it's chewing, it's salivating and foaming and whispering, "What shall we write about next? What will become of our next...victim?" As if I could answer that on my own. There's Ozzy Osbourne, his shoulder around Sharon and he's staring at me with some sort of far-off look in those shadowed eyes, eyes that regale us with the thoughts that bound through his pear-shaped skull. I wonder what world absorbs his mind as he stands there, watching me, pulling the good-old Mona Lisa as I type about him, this full circle forming that, naturally, never breaks apart. How many years he's going to stare into the space where my chin floats in front of a square computer screen, challenging him to move. Nobody here is smiling...everyone is frowning, staring off into some unknown that they can't see, and I wonder why they cease to grin or relieve themselves of obvious torture. Why this wall of discoloration doesn't brighten itself up a little. Why David Bowie is crying. Should his tears fall into the ocean I'm unsure about how he'd be able to sort them out again, how he'd find what rightfully belonged to him. Maybe he wants to lose them so that he can get away. But the ocean is lifeless, and when that tear leaps through the opaque air it still darkens the ripple that once shed light on old subjects, and the sky is cast over with the new gray "style" and everyone's crying, everyone's crying, everyone's crying and they don't want to get up again. The shorelines are erased until there is no barrier between what was and what existed, as if there ever had been one. I beg of you, get up- just wake up- stop lying, lying on the ground, to yourself. Get up, I say. Get up. But David is crying, and the sky falls slowly, one by one until the air is feathered with endless tears, all silently pooling onto the unearthed ground. And his eyes scan over the land, the sea that he has created in his mind, and he stops to marvel at the beautiful serenity that he finds through his silent tears. He stands, perplexed. And that is when he notices that the sky was never really all that cloudy, anyway. And that is when he drains the tears from the ocean and watches the freshwater sea scintillate under his majesty's clear-as-day stars. And that is when he looks over to Ozzy, carefully stapled next to Paul McCartney, and says, "Hey, let's ditch this joint." And now no one is crying.