tomorrow I shall burn You. dixi.

Three lost glimpses into the life of Daniel Molloy: 2018, 1996, and 1974.

He spent most of that year high. He spent the rest of it all different sorts of hungover. Sweating and throwing up, knocking back handfuls of aspirin that didn’t help, staying up all night bouncing off the walls and rambling nonsense into his tape recorder that he played back when he was halfway sober hoping to find a gem of hidden genius and getting confronted with the hallucinating delusions of a coked-up lunatic instead. He sleepwalked and had nightmares. He woke up choking on his own vomit as cold hands forced him over onto his side. This happened more than once. This happened more than twice. He had dreams which weren’t nightmares where he killed himself and then woke up dead with cold and lovely lips against his throat. His days were a haze. His nights were clear crystal color when he wasn’t too high to function; when he was just high enough to be the fun and pliant toy he was supposed to be; when he was sober enough to still get hard for his own personal demon incubus who came and slaughtered whoever he might have tricked into his bed that night as a pitiful offering of human sacrifice to his vengeful hating god.