I Only Board Flights I Can’t Explain

It came through the clouds. A riff. A rupture. Maybe prophecy. Maybe madness

They put me in Group 5. Nobody puts me in Group 5. No. I chose it. I missed my earlier flight. It was a morning flight. I mean who flys mornings? I had to buy a fresh one like a lunatic with a melting credit card. Free will, baby. The Kerouac seat. Santa Monica and Venice in my rearview, Mad Max vibes in the mirror, a tequila in my hand.

Tokyo calls. Followed by Osaka. A party. A prophecy. And a suite at the BVLGARI that looks like it was built for a Blade Runner sequel. I feel like Keef, post 72. Cigarette hanging off the lip, striped silk shirt soaked in smoke, tape rolling before memory kicks in.

Somewhere over the Pacific, I hit record. I’m gonna chase the dragon around the streets of Tokyo. But a riff came out. I don’t remember writing it. Words spilled everywhere. I don’t know if it’s good. I don’t even know what I said. But it's recorded. I’ll read it when I land. Or maybe after the stupor lifts. I know it comes from somewhere primal.

Time to Destination: 06:58.

I'll bow out now. Embrace the pull of the other side. But whatever's on that tape, it’s not for X. It’s not for the tourists and scrollers. It’s for the faithful. The ones who pay to be haunted. You guys. Not the rich bastards. The real ones. The ones who want the black drip. The raw taste of tomorrow. Uncut. Undiluted. Something still warm.

So go on, if you wanna see what I blacked out then: Crank it. Read it. Let it take you.

This is going out to all subscribers so for those still sitting at the edge of normality…

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The future’s already written. I just carry the tape...

Hugh, Keef’s Psychonaught