I only sleep sitting up. Beds are foreign. Remote. There’s a long stretch between me and any bed. Both forwards and backwards. And sideways, I’m not there yet to have a bed. There’s still nineteen years for me to cause trouble before I have to worry about crossing myself. Then I suppose I have to be careful. but how careful do I have to be? For all her faults my mother was still leagues above cavorting with the likes of me. My life was boring before it was awful. This is boring too. It’s not fair for something to be terrible and boring.
If I contradict myself it’s because I contain multitudes. Plus I’m high and time is weird.
I don’t even think I have to leave the city. The closest I’d ever to see of myself is seeing some kid hurried along past the beggarman. What can I do? The classic schemes won’t pan out. I won’t have a SSN or birth certificate. My ID is real. The UV activated holographic watermarks shimmer as they should. If I lick my thumb and press it against the microarray strip a bioluminescent green glows in approval. My hair’s all different and I’ve lost weight, but a scan of the QR2-codes written in micro will show my prints and retina match. Besides, even if I could get a bank account, the stock market is a long game as is compound interest and my needs are in the now.
I should walk into the Soviet embassy (they must at least have a consulate here) hand the plastic over, explain what it does (god knows I couldn’t tell them how it works), and ask for a dascha with a maid and one of those masseuses who work topless to come by each week. Or at least like a grand a week. Enough to keep on keepin’ on, but not too much to start attracting attention. That racket will could until the wall comes down, or I could get thrown into some midwest gulag for being a degenerate in the new SSR of the old US of A.
I rouse and slam the back of my head against the wall. My eyes glance left and my head follows. I stare at the window frame. There’s no window of course. We broke it on the way in, and people don’t really bother draping squats. Black plastic is stretched over and bound with duct tape. There must be a wind blowing because our garbage bag cum window rustles. I don’t know what time it is (only that it’s not mine), but I hope it’s daylight. I always liked daylight. Even though I wasn’t an outdoorsy kid and kept odd hours.
I hope it’s day. I’d like to think there’s kids riding bikes and playing, and doing all the kind of shit we never really did but say we did to guilt the present with an idyllic past. I stare at the plastic and try to conjure an acceptable reality to lie beyond it. I remember seeing blackness though a frame before. It rippled like water. My worldline passes through it.