Frequently Asked Questions
Who are you?
The 22nd letter of the alphabet. Three kobolds in a trenchcoat. Something is missing. A stranger reciting newborn poetry to xirself on a street corner somewhere, a dude in a tacky button-up shirt who got lost in Ikea, a rubber ducky wannabe. The horrors, the horrors! A barrel of beans being rapidly shaken by a monkey with nothing better to do.
A professional human impersonator employed by [redacted]. A teacup chihuahua screaming at the top of its lungs. A bucket of water perched on top of a partly-closed door. Something is wrong with you. He screams, for he does not know, cannot know, may never know, for there is no knowing and there is no truth; there is only the gingerbread rotting beneath his fingers and within his flesh, the unyielding knowledge that he built his home from skin and his skin from brick and there is no end to the cycle of building.
There's a gargoyle of a woman perched in the corner, burning eyes staring at you as you enter the room, wings spread against the walls. This is not your domain. Her presence grips the space, and you feel her fingers curled around every breath you take.
You crouch despite yourself, knees driving you a few inches closer to the ground as the air boils above you. Something crackles over the back of your neck. The air smells like ozone and sulfur, as sour and sharp as a knife made of lemons. You keep walking.
One more line and they'll feed you. One more line and then you can sleep. One more line and they'll throw you in the zoo with the other monkeys and then a little girl with her hair all up in braids and bows will come along, branded ice cream in hand, and she'll yank her mommy's arm and go, "mommy, mommy, look at the monkeys!" and jam her fat little fingers into the glass, thunk, thunk, smearing grease all over the walls while you flinch at the noise.
"...first impressions are
(if I'm going Occams on it) that
you're an incarnate spirit of
at least 3 primordial godlings,
two luminaries and a medieval wizard
(unless you really are
three kobolds in a nice dress),
and possibly
the transmogrified subconscious mullings
of the collective unconscious
circa [a really cool party in 1969]"
- A Friend Named Skye
Gestalt in human skin, tell me your name- What name is there to share? What could you call me that would not be true? I am the black behind your eyelids and the white of the sky in winter. I am everything in nothing become everything again. I am a singularity. I am paradox.
you who strive so hard to be loved that you forget you are not a dog but a coyote, a thing of the brush and dirt and blood that pounds through your veins when brown-cowlicks-ugly-necktie from accounting misplaces your paperwork for the thousandth time and forgets to return your stapler, when you look out the window at the grass stretching on for miles with its eternal groundskeeper always mowing the lawn while all the little things of the world flee the blades razing their universe-
Tell me; does it burn inside? Does the spark flicker and flare into a roar that shakes the house to its foundation, or is this the quiet sort of ego-death where machinery shudders to a halt, something gumming the works? Tell me, learn to let go and tell me.
☺️ Hope that helps!
You're crazy.
That's not a question, but sure. I'll also accept "insane", "bonkers", "delusional", and whatever else you come up with. Points for originality. It's not my job to decide what you call me, but some things get stale.
And please, please don't ask strangers for their medical records on the internet. Have you heard of medical privacy laws? They exist for a reason.
How do I interact with you?
I'm still made of meat and electricity, aren't I? I'm sure you can send one of those newfangled email things.
Where do you put your writing?
Lots of websites and a few zine distribution hubs. Here's a starting point or two:
There's more. Good luck.
Can I ask you [question]?
If you'd feel comfortable asking a stranger on the street the same question, then go ahead.
Last updated: