We rolled up to the Margarita Café by about 11:30pm. The place was hopping as it always did back then. A crowd of humanoid tadpoles exorcizing the demons of libidinal energy.
“Everything already is,” I kept thinking to myself. This music already is and I am only now hearing it. The girl I am yet to hit on already exists and I am yet to cozy up to her in this bouncing, pulsating quantum field of psychosomatic am-ness. The guy in the apartment was already dead and that future that we were to walk in was already his present. “Everything already is,” I kept thinking to myself, discovering each pseudo-moment of “now” as a future-given fact.
Michigan and I, the zombie-gods, kept on dancing for another two or three years, never looking back, but only looking into this already-present future that pierces us right through our chests, the silly little sizzling shish kabobs that we humans are.
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