any american in a foreign land should carry a pistol

The days are long and my life and conciousness fades in and out of what burroughs described as interzone. There are agents coming to get me i feel, all fleet of foot and fedoras. My body aches and my dreams have been reality hybrids where clones of people i love distrub my sleep and the walking dead infest my grandmother's house. cinematic streets all covered by oils of chicago tongues wagging. my brain grows heavy and i slip back...further...further to a time when navy pants and white shirts hung in my closet, perpetually making me a character from some catholic graphic novel...i speak bear to bears on trips through concrete forests, coffee in hand and pen leaking in my mouth, dripping onto page through pop-culture rivers...kevin bacon searching for a killer of statue size, boomerang toenails left in mud...popnoir as its called, degrees of seperation where a blind man only speaks in film references....where is this world...where have i left it...why am i here....so many questions...