Wapun Meadow boorish

A step forwards, a step backwards. Some sick interpretive dance. The single eye burns and burns like the end of a cigarette and the afterimage is copy pasted everywhere he looks, everytime he blinks. He's learning what an ashtray feels like everytime a red cherry's being extinguished. 
He won't allow me to do the job interview with blood on my face. I'm going to get it all over my business cards. My fucking cufflinks. What are you doing? You know, you know and that's why, Breathe. That's why you're smiling. Isn't it? It's so hard to keep track of what he's thinking and what he's saying. The skin between reality and unreality is so porous. Osmosis, electrochemical gradients, dispersion. 
You think you can fix me? He's turned all flat. All flat, like the edges of a stealth bomber. Tangent lines, a matte surface. Unknowable. Unreadable. Only a smile.