Transmitter wrote this at around evening time:

I could hear the water running inside of him.

He was from Florida. He wasn’t prepared to move north. He never wore socks and didn’t know how to dress. He was always cold and sick. Shivering in his Brit-pop v-neck shirt and slip-on shoes, he talked about Europe.

He filled his body with kabbalistic tattoos, numbers that named everything and found god’s name in long division. He liked to read motorcycle schematics.

His hair was frosted. A remnant from the shock of the cold.


Transmitter wrote this just before lunchtime:

Bright Yellow Dress

The other day I was outside the changing rooms at Forever 21 waiting for my love to try on some clothes. And, as the name of the store implies, the regular clientele appear to be trapped more in a young mindset than a young body type. During the wait, a helpless girl needed assistance: “Does my ass hang out of this dress? Does the color look okay on me?”

She was trying on a short yellow party dress, bright, bright yellow. The contrast of the sunshine yellow against her fake-baked brown skin looked like corn kernals in shit. I wanted to tell her that no one will even notice her ass. I wanted to dive across the room (screaming “nooooo” in slow motion) and save her from a terrible fashion faux pas. I wanted to stop the sales people that came to her aid from telling her that she looked great in it.

Instead I just sat there and tried not to cry. I am weak. I should have helped her.


Transmitter wrote this in the early morning:

Did I leave because I’m living a narcissistic delusion in which the world revolves around me? Or, did I go into hiding to avoid those types of people? Either way, I’ve smashed all of my mirrors. (Don’t worry though, I took all of the shards and made a fantastic mosaic!)