MERCANTILE / words by Chris Walla

Upstairs, on the kitchen floor, is where you are consumed. You solder faster than I knew, but there’s a chance your pinhole camera pictures are still alright. Be good now, don’t fight; the stars will be up soon, and soon you’ll have another chance to move. With any luck, you’ll pin down constellations with hummingbird precision.

Council meeting: The Mercantile wants to see you evicted. I can’t argue. You’re very loud, and sick, sick, sick.

Take this cash, feel good. I don’t know what you do (if it starts or if it ends with me), I only know I’ve tried not to be bitter. I brought you soup for dinner, and while you’re eating, we slip into a sad, sad conversation: You’ve decided that some exotic tea will let you choose your reincarnation.

I could play the voice of reason and yell at you to get your ass to bed, but I’m uncomfortable with kind suggestions, so I’ll sit and watch you here in your apartment, with records on, and use that’s unrestricted. Mark these words: It’s the last time I encourage you to fix it. I encourage you to fix it.