tim fazed his shades, timed his watch, sat on the moon. sitting, he saw that there was an existential computer floating, everyone's faces chilling. he clicked on the faces, it gave their identity, their memories, their aesthetic as a human. he floated some more, the computer was immediately boring. but sound emanated through out the atmosphere. he was drawn to the beats, melodiously staring at his watch again. signs, were they. numbers detailed in fine intricacy.
fazing his shades, he realized an intricate detail of his clothing. his pants were ripped, his shoes untied, well they were slip ons. he could play tony hawk when he was a kid, he could play pro skater now. looking around this vortex, he was immediately entrenched in time and space, just as a pencil is singular but whole, circular, infinitely finite, words on paper, lead on tree, tree from ground, the ground sprouts free. animated toons were his favorite, he liked to watch them and listen to music. clicking buttons, he learned that buttons were the main portal. but clicks were the main revenue. clicks. simple. get you lots. then work and grind. then escape. click. swag. click. get called a fag, or a brokeback fuck boy. then stop. stare at her face as she swoons from the moon. then back again, at the paper.
tim slipped back on his shoes, he grabbed his laptop, his parents were gone for the evening. he kept following people. he was back on the computer. he never left. this was a universe he was drawn to. because it was animated, 3D, but unreal enough to have an aesthetic to it that was a click away, rather than a drift so to say, so to speak, no bird could reach this peak, unless they peaked around the corner, like the boy scoping screens, scrolling, rolling on pure dopamine, channeling inner energy. he was just a little above the clouds, from the rest of them. it's lonely at the top they say.
tim laid down, laptop open. girls. no. let's focus. let's go to. hm. open close. sitting outside, tim saw his curtains were drawn, he loved how the light shined through his apartment, modern, kinda ambience. whatever that means. lo fi feeling to the music he makes in his bedroom. on his deck, he smokes and talks to friends, if they make a stop by. why the long face, they ask. because nothing has happened yet, he says, and nothing really will. it's all just what didn't happen, besides that one tragedy, this or that, you know. but everything is too boring. so he opens his laptop and just click click clack!!! something devastating just took place. ahah he wrote it off click click clack!!! what was he doing with his keys. making fucking beats. click click CLACK click click CLACK boom boom BAP boom boom BAP cc bb cc bb doom doom dip dip dipper skipper skap. alright, someone else made this track, but he liked it. it was controlled anger, controlled fear, controlled sadness, war zone in computer space, not tangible, but felt. he turned off his computer. he turned on the tv. a soap opera to flood the room with noise. white noise. static sound. off again.
tim skated and did kick flips and pulled off tricks while great music played, and ecstasy floated off the mirrors of the universe, windowing the souls, to find their peaks, individuality and eternities within eternities outward forever inward for always, electric guitar and drum in the room played by many, played by a few, good style, worthwhile, sometimes cold shoulder, sometimes rocky boulder, but all snow, all surf, all pavements, once chased now skated, in the cloudy haze of lovers, real lovers, reunited.