The camera is pointed at my crotch, and America is burning behind me. Steve1 tells me to sit up for better framing. I do not care. I have seen the future, and it’s already ruined.
I am broadcasting from Santa Monica, post apocalypse style, just back from Wilmington's suffocating gated paradise of Chardonnay and home associations. America’s not dead; it’s undead. Surfboards here shout, “The Truth Always Happens,” graffiti screaming prophecy like punk scripture. I glance up at the broken clock tower; time stopped here long ago.
Across from me is Steve Drobny, hedge fund shaman, last seen suited with me at a gig we performed at the London School of Economics in 2011. Back then we were just pretending, me at least. Now? Now we’re raw, unfiltered, no tie, no lie. Just two fugitives from time, trading scars and secrets.
Last night a girl at Gran Blanco asked where I’m from. “The future,” I said, because why not, it’s true. I tend to share random shit like this, I don’t know why. She was 30, in case you’re wondering. Blond and beautiful blue eyes. An image i’ve failed to shake off since.
