Usually, they are following me. This time, I am following them.

With cameras. Three to be exact.

We switch roles. They have always followed me if I am organizing. But not this time.

I can only write small glimpses of what they do, what they’re about, what being marginal really means. I can only photograph a strange world of sighs. I can only video a divided universe of sorries. I can only function in the shadows of their witchcraft. Darkened corners have always been my specialty. I can only touch upon the illusions they create. My own stories are all done. My own stories are relics from the past, I do not like the past, a ball of swallowing chains and deficits, and not worth born upon themselves discernible value in articulating as an outline with the notable exceptions of the sad voyeur. The big wars appear to be egregiously an ass. But the stories of the alien beings I film are of a much wider appetite for a revenge that wins, that rides a skateboard to the very lips of skies, that robs a trick of divided duty, and from this property holy writs are anal deep for tongues of chance, and fury in the circumstance of words.

Words do not do much for me. I do not get off on them. I do not cum on any of their feet.

These tigerdogs that I live with – and sometimes follow or am dragged along adventures in the bonds of love –

are monumental mongrels, and then take hands in dust. It is usually the stars that wherein the madness sleeps upon dejected dreams of fortune but never breaks the sound barrier. One trick simply films them in his hot tub. It is their camaraderie that remains addictive. They see it as a way to make the money they need to survive. Everything is connected to survival, and they no longer need anyone else to kneel down to believe that fact. They believe it, feeble up, for, and upon themselves, and reduced to simple thieves, a deadly use will break the night they swim in.

They laugh a lot and I make no judgements from it. They are not unlike the crows of time that seek remorse. This time the wounded up. They are the weird sisters in their caves of fate, and seeing such dreadful things as graves where life is drawn, their bonfires tend to stick in throats. And when they fall, they fall like prologues drowning in their stories of their bones reproached from their visages of pursuit. Purging grief, there is nothing of him left for any of the rest of us.