the crime is the punishment

trisha trousseau was blonde as the sun, monstrously blonde full head of hair, surrounding her like luxurious fur. she had murdered her father, her fucking father for the US of A. she had planned the whole thing, from a to z. where had she miscalculated? snow

was falling

dead moths

dropped

from sky

stars burned out

slanted.

she had murdered her fucking father. she lit a cigarette and smoked it and then killed it with her thin fingers. she quit the CI of A. she was alone, lonely and hungry.

she entered a bar and started to drink away until tomorrow had passed through infinity's rainbow to time's arrow. some guy sat next to her and she did not even look at him.

hi.

fuck off.

she turned her head to look at his face. then turned,

her soul was dead. she could hear the scream of the butterflies.

the more and more she drank, the more unreal reality looked. this is what she had been struggling with for so long, reality, maya. she was sick of fighting, who could understand the mechanisms of reality. dostoevsky. the brothers karamazov. secular humanism was the devil. the last man. the humanist academic who says everything is taste, everything is relative, everything could go anyway and the future would still be the same. fuck these people.