My Fellow Doomed Dude,
Impossible as it may seem, the highways are getting louder. And some asshole runs the air raid sirens at dusk, even though there’s nothing left to save and nothing left to save it from.
These are the days of the love cry of the damned and the mating call of God. It’s getting harder and more pointless to sleep.
You say you saw the images by which you identified your life as your own on sale as hieroglyphics for something else. Me too. It’s clear that we aren’t meant for what’s coming.
Time wears us down, wrings us out. Time fills us up with its trash and carries us to the curb. Well, today I have begun to root for time.
Your Flickering Friend,

My Direst Dear,
You keep crying apocalypse, but so far, it’s just been another pricktease. Awful. How this crap hangs on, drags on.
All the songs in the world have deflated like a string of balloons after the party is over. All the great efforts at sustaining wakefulness will fail. Lately, catastrophe is the only thing that calms me.
The refrigerators hum, the neon signs buzz in expectation of it. The wires are hot, but the fire is out. I used to argue about religion, but now I argue about diets. Maybe I’m tuning out the real problem, but maybe I’m honing in on it. Who am I to say? Exactly. No one.
This is what it feels like to be born at the end of time.
I am angry, hungry and tired. I ought to be shot in the face, right in the teeth. A person hypnotizes himself this way.
What’s really wrong? Maybe nothing. Maybe nothing much.
We will all meet at heave’s end. Expect no praise. But expect no interference.
Is This Meat Hook Taken?

Hey Dickbird,
Don’t you go soft on me now. Do I have to remind you of when heaven came to earth? We were starving, shaped by our peculiarly bottomless memory of famine.
It was a slaughter. The angels dissolved like paper against our gentlest rapes. We licked their brainpans clean and crapped down the middle of Heaven Street.
What a fucking triumph that was.
The town was ours, still named Heaven. But like everything, it was meant sarcastically.
Now you turn around and try to judge me? I beg your god-damned pardon. Did we fuck and kill people to get here, or was that just me?
Take It Back,

My Incontinent Confessor,
What do I want? Is that any way to speak to a friend? If you must know, I want it all, no kidding. Even if I have to burn it down to get it.
In my private plans, I make Alexander look like the passionless Buddha. I make Napoleon look like the sleeping body of a nameless saint. I am so hungry that my dying wish is simply to taste the food I have eaten.
When the world explodes, expect to see my face reflected in every white eye, in every gray screen. It won’t be a coincidence at all.
Red-Hot Regards,
The First National Spill-O Memorial Person

Colin Dodds grew up in Massachusetts and completed his education at The New School in New York City. Norman Mailer wrote that Dodds’ novel The Last Bad Job showed “something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent that owes very little to other people.” Dodds’ novels What Smiled at Him and Another Broken Wizard have been widely acclaimed by critics and readers alike. His screenplay, Refreshment – A Tragedy, was named a semi-finalist in 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. Two books of Dodds’ poetry—The Last Man on the Moon and The Blue Blueprint—are available from Medium Rare Publishing. Dodds’ writing has also appeared in dozens of periodicals, including The Wall Street Journal Online, Folio, Block Magazine, The Architect’s Newspaper, The Main Street Rag, The Reno News & Review and Lungfull! Magazine. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife Samantha.

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