Immortality tastes like dust. Our parents thought they were giving us gifts, fools raised thinking the future was any day. They dreamt silver rocketships, chrome screaming into the sky. The future is now, dull as water-smoothed stone. I found this place walking alone at night. Left over industrial zone from before the nontech war. No-one noticed when I moved in, hooked lights back up, took this graveyard of a disco to make my home. I’ve filled this empty place tonight. I’m alone on the dancefloor, my bare knees against gritty wood. I can’t see through the spotlight, but I hear them. I shake with their low respectful murmur. Nothing extraordinary but this. We implant fashionable kinks, there’s nothing holy, nothing raw. The sword in front of me I made myself. Hours spent learning to fold steel in the forge behind the stage. I didn’t take pills, I’m not in love tonight. They come, my lovers, one after the other to spill seed in my hair, on my face. There is silence as I explicitly slip it in. The tip of the blade perfect, my blood like light to drip to the floor. This smallest death of all, but finally real.
edit: There’s now plenty more in my journal that you are more than welcome to jab with a stick.