Straight from the edge of ruin.

See, morey is not, as is, some who are. Not at all. morey is what is as morey, and not at all restrained by what is, or protruded by what is, or confined by what is, human. The morey bothers humans because he shows no respect to them, and no respect to the things they respect, and all humans have that one thing they respect which, if one should disrespect, a little button is depressed in that person's head and they go into anger mode, like when you're a kid at school and somebody disses your mom and you have to fight them for it. You don't know why and you're getting mad, but you're building that anger, it isn't exactly there but you have to put it there because somebody just insulted the woman you love and you know not how to react... Like when morey disrespected Hemingway. That could have bothered me because Hemingway understands what it means to have light shine through leaves outside quiet cafes, he understands the drink and the insanity and the smoke, the gun and the fist and the horn; Hemingway knows the silent moments in which man is imperfection incarnate and is dipped in a selfish solitude that makes God grasp at him with a curiousity akin to the God in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions who just had to know what his human once in a world of robots would say when he came sliding down the mountain to wade below in the river spring. But the disrespect is not grounded! He doesn't know Hemingway, but morey knows know and is of not knowing that which is unknowable, so that he can paint and ride bikes and smile queerly to the derelicts of worldly 'burbs. Anywhere, anyone, any time, morey can drink in a character and like it without ground. See, he respects nothing. No value or tradition or religion or constitution, but if morey likes you it is for something as simple as a chemical cocktail and a series of events, an acid flashback and a circadian mistep, sugar you didn't want in a coffee you can't return because you're already at work, but it turns out being the best coffee you've ever had. And on that groundless ground in the wake of uncertainty, morey, that flittering thing likes and dislikes without reason, just passion, dividing heaven and hell on a cunt hair decision and riding insanity to divine inspiration that is the lohan. Be so enlightened as to see without seeing, to take texture from afar the way you take colour, the way your eye extracts it from a distance that could only be spoken of in a paranormal tongue by the born blind that hasn't the concept to take colour from distance. Live and let live. Do not understand morey, but hear him, the way you walk out of a hairdresser with the same haggard trot after she guessed your sign and that of your friends, told you how you fuck up and why and when, things nobody could have known, and nod to astronomy but pass it by, take and absorb and move on, like what you must do to the teachers and cops and faculty if you know who you are, and accept the morey as a commodity. Cause I've thought it over and that mother fucker ain't human. Nightrious Sat, 09/06/2008 - 09
Nov 11
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moon makes Mac

Moon stirred the pot and stared at the naked noodles stupefied. How was she supposed to make mac and cheese if the cheese packet was missing? She sniffed around in the fridge and came across an opened package of rancid cream cheese. She nuked the cheese for a minute while she drained the noodles into a plastic bowl. She took a can of Crisco out of the fridge and dropped a couple of fingers of it into the bowl. After lubing up the noodles with the Crisco she added the cream cheese.
Most of the cheese was black with mold so she kept blending until the entire dish had an even neutral gray tone. It looked gross. She got an idea and started rifling through the kitchen drawers and cupboards till she found what she needed, food coloring. She dumped in some yellow and a little bit of red till it somewhat resembled real Mac. She didn’t want to taste it, it didn’t really matter it was for the neighbor, whom she’d never even seen.
She knew her neighbor was some housebound type and that this guy named morey would bring him/her food once in awhile, but that’s all she knew. She talked to morey occasionally but he was tight lipped about the neighbor so she’d quit asking. She liked morey and that’s why she was making the Mac. He’d asked if she’d put food just inside her neighbor’s door for the next few days, and she’d said sure without thinking. Morey had called her a good egg and punched her lightly on the shoulder. Even this minimal physical contact had made her blush, and her penis thicken. She went into her small bathroom and masturbated into the toilet.
She’d first met morey right after the neighbor moved in, almost a year previous. She’d opened her door and walked right into him, he was standing in the hall holding a plastic storage bin. He said hello to her and then pushed the neighbor’s door open with his foot. He was about her height, his head was shaved and he was wearing sunglasses. She also noticed he was wearing dark corduroys that sagged a bit around his butt.
Later that day at work she found herself describing him to another maid, Sconia. Sconia was Croatian and in her broken English tried to find out if moon was going to make fuck with morey. She was using crude hand gestures to get her point across. Moon pretended that she didn’t understand, and shrugged her shoulders. From what she’d seen of him morey was attractive, in a bland sort of way. It’d been quite awhile since she’d had anything even resembling sex, she couldn’t imagine it, with anyone.
Moon and morey developed a limited sort of relationship, based solely on accidental meetings in the hall. One day he told her she had been in his dream, and she had been wearing a big white Afro wig. He asked if she had one, and she laughed nervously, because she did. She didn’t tell him that though. She wondered how he knew and had he been snooping around in her apartment? She thought about wearing the wig one day, surprising him, as a joke. She feared he wouldn’t laugh though and it would turn into an awkward moment.
She had been feeding the neighbor for two days when she slipped the Mac and Cheese into the apartment. The temptation to explore had been strong but she resisted it, thinking it would be creepy of her. There was a subtle odor in the air that at first, although familiar, she couldn’t place. Later while bundling dirty sheets at work she realized what the smell reminded her of, fecal matter and musk cologne.
The day after she’d dropped off the Mac, there was a knock at the door. Five quiet raps in quick succession. She stopped stirring the grits she was cooking and removed the pan from the stove. The knocks came again.
It was morey, his sunglasses were on his head, and his eyes were read with tears. He was holding a large tortoise, belly out. He pushed it into her hands, and said, “You killed Frank.” That’d been the last time she saw him.
end