The loss of @galaxim becomes more than I can bear so I mourn loudly.
In response arrives the young prince Hamberg, popping into my thunder cloud and handing me a card, which I take. The ink runs slippery round my fingers. Noxious gas rises from its surface. Deeper I stare, noticing a gun barrel rise and pop a confetti bullet into my third eye.
I drop the card and pull back. The Prince stands looming in tunnel vision.
You're on my list, he says.
The confetti is boiling in my brain, my black ink slipping, skidding, petrifying, exploding, malfunctioning, tearing a hole through the text, and exposing my heart.
My eyeball pulses in migraine.
I tell him I've always wanted a friend like him.
Think about what you're saying, he says, laughing.
We could be great together.
I'd probably end up hating you. Then again it's not like I don't already.
I tell him that you win some, you lose some, but that you've got to play the game.
Oh I'm always playing the game, I play to win.
Galaxim enters the room.
We are always together, he tells me.