Prose from the journal of The Guardian Fog.
Perish the thought of future glories, dreams of self denial. The streets are empty at this time of night, so what’s the purpose of interpersonal reflection, though I am—reflected in four separate puddles of fresh water. Jackson is a ghost town, a fake city built to defy the celestial powers of the north star, a sweet dream of eternal rebellion and sanctified anger, but it’s full of holes and every one of them leads to a different hell. I’ve been walking for hours, days, years, and I want the mist to catch me so I can be lost again. But, I have no such luck, only hopeless truth, damned and burning hot, like nights outside the boundary of the idolic air conditioning. I climb a tree, hang from my legs and divine a different perspective.
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