Names is for tombstones, baby. 

You’d be screaming too if you saw James Bond diving through the clouds, his indestructible skull aimed directly at the puddle of meat you call a body. With hearts for eyes, he sails toward me, between the murderous bolts of lightning that strike birds out of the sky. 

In the yard, a row of human tongues squeeze through a sprinkler, blowing raspberries. The rain comes down, and I run my fingers through my sopping wet hair. I might move somewhere nice tomorrow. Somewhere with a little bar. I don’t worry about getting lonely. Not when I fall in love so easily. 

Still, babies get made the same way movies do. And it’s better to be alone when you have random and blinding bursts of rage. I don’t want to be an actor, I want to be a different person. There won’t be more days like this. 



Nate Hoil could have been great. Now he lives in the pool house of a very expensive escort. Please send him five dollars so he can follow his dreams. Twitter: @natehoil