Everything might be a work of fiction. This is fiction.
It has been more than two weeks. The outer glow of your skin ceased to exist before my mind's eyes. I have seen other outer glows of skins and it seems like all outer glows of skins are all different yet the same. They are all flames, with differing colours, to moths, who are supposed to be hypnotized into submission towards the darkness of destruction that lies within the light. I am not one of those moths. At least, not anymore. Or so I thought. There are other yous. And these yous failed to do what you have done. I believe I began being more careful after getting high and dry with the noun that the first you in this paragraph refers to. You may be a he, a she, or an it, but I do not think that would matter much, since you may be all or none of the above as well. Or even beyond or within any label.
Where is the bi cycle, you ask? Well, what do you care? I have driven in to many places, despite my weak control of its mandala wheels--which are not really helping in the magick of concentration into the metaphysical and transcendental or whatever is beyond the material. Also, my tendency to stop whenever I writhe in it brings me closer and more down to earth--at rare moments, so close that my face comes into contact with the face of the earth. An instance, you ask? Well here goes something recent: I have told you the last time that "The road it shall traverse is the universe populated with lovers and/or fetishists who are potential victims of accidents I might launch in the name of learning. Of god. Of science. Of art. Of you." Well, it just so happens that I apparently became one of the lovers that became the victim of my own reckless driving. Of the bi cycle.
I stopped into this you, that I thought would be my you away from you. This new you seems better--I wanted to tell the world how your bosom offers the best comfort with all the freedom and the sunlight and the wisdom and the moonlight and the understanding and the starlight and the discipline and the anarchy that I can handle with responsibility. All these within the this new you's concrete dress, in contrast with the old you's naked satin tunic that comes with a mask that smiles like sunshine, hiding the horror behind--which is something I find attractive and sweet. But then, this new you is more repulsive and more pretentious. I have almost committed my self to this new version of you, only to find out that it is a worse version of you--though you do not intend it to be. I then decided to writhe in my bi cycle again and leave as I have left most things I leave--with respect and criticism.
I opt to drive elsewhere. Somewhere without you or your presence, though that would be impossible, so, I would then go in a place where I could write and unwrite, draw and undraw, erase and unerase, sing and unsing, and, create and uncreate you and things about you. I will find more yous, with or without anybody's consent. Having no other choice, this is how I "chose" to live, for now, while rainbow highways and ultraviolet expressways are under construction and while the mandala wheels of my bi cycle changes in a kaleidoscopic manner as it destroys the streets of spectral colours (and anti-colours and anything in between) it leaves behind.