Sisyphus the HacK

Fuck the cab.

I remember one time, when I was young, five years old or some shit, I was laying on the TV room’s orange and brown 70’s shag carpet, belly down, arms propping up my head – as usual, for as long as I could ignore the aching in my joints, or before getting up to grab a snack at a commercial, whichever came first.

This one time, at a commercial, I blanked completely out. I didn’t get up. I’d suddenly found myself snapped inside some vacuous dream, as all of my aches, too, fast faded with the blackness. After a time, this dream, of blackness, at once began spooling some vibrant, blood red ribbon down through the void, s l o w l y, from the upper border of my mind’s eye’s frame, with the ribbon’s descent encroaching, ever, into the narrowed “me” that was now this womb-like field of view.

And as I’d become all consumed in this ribbon’s (seemingly unstoppable) descent, without any thought prior, I instinctually willed a pair of scissors into being – you know the kind, steel with the black handles painted on faux – to CUT.


And the ribbon keeps descending.


And the ribbon keeps descending.


And the ribbon keeps descending.




Photo by SacK


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