the aftermath of Daveshead Day

Dear Diary,

I guess I got over Sabine. Her break-up letter hit me pretty damn hard. She left me for some dude named Henry, who has big arms, and makes his own perfume.
John Finn was feeling the heat from the Sentries. My soul was in the gutter. So we hopped a freight train. From New Hope City: Eastern Seaboard to New Hope City: Middle-Western Belt. The mighty Mid-West. Met true allies. Oscar Towne. Quiet and totally on point. A great craftsman. And the Vissermatron 3000. Half-human/half-robot. A musical genius. That robot is on some different shit.
Went to an underground dance-off in an abandoned subway tunnel. Danced-off against some mindblowing-foxy-futuristic babes. Sentries busted in, grabbed me, John, and Oscar, took us to a Social Rejuvenation Spa, pumped us full of drugs, fed us mind-oozing images and sounds, and tried to “Revitalize Our Energy”. I thought it was the end for us.
But the Vissermatron saved us by busting in, and bending space and time with his bass-power frequencies. We kicked the shit out of some Sentries, escaped the Social Rejuvenation Spa, and hopped a freight train back to Eastern Seaboard, with a new crew of friends. A connection. A circle. I felt blessed.
We made it back just in time for Daveshead Day. Old Man O’Connor had built a transmitter out of Old Technology. Our transmission cut into the Daveshead Day, city-wide broadcast, and we broadcasted our own pirate radio. We played music that came from our hearts. It was weird, felt weird. Felt strange. Felt savage. People moved.
The city shook. Pandemonium. Electron-4-wheels and Dazzlescooters were thrown into Wiberdon’s Department and Luxury Store. The Sandwich Mansion was looted. Snowmania even melted a bit. I heard Han Deeber and Doug McClintoch, from the pop group Eternal Libations, jumped off the Fusion Way Bridge in 2grams of Sensitine panic. Into the South-East River. They survived.
Mass hysteria.
Mass madness.
XTREME4WHEELTRACTIONPORTERS toppled on top of each other in the dealership. Salespeople were passing out free UpGrADE Crème Sticks, and when the customers heard our transmission they started rocking the huge mountain of cars on display.
Three young execs outside of the MediaCorps Capital Building were blazed on Hyper-Focus, and fenced each other for four, straight hours. No one could break up the three-way match. Two of them got sliced up pretty bad.
And Sabine. Well, she died. She’s dead. She’s gone. She was riding on the back of Henry’s Dazzlescooter as they were blazing down Daveshead Boulevard. He tried to pull some crazy maneuver around the bend to impress her. Then our music tore through the speakers, he lost control of the scooter and wiped out. She split to bits. He was unscathed. Word is, that my name is the last thing she said.
Death.
Death is irreversible.
You will never see that person again. Where are they? Are they looking down upon us? Are they guiding us and protecting us? Do they only exist in the cells in our brains? Which cells? Or only in the pages left behind? Decaying, old paper. In files of digits in computermatrons? In the intraweb? What if our computermatron crashes, and you lose the only photos you had of them? Him. Her.
I have a letter from Sabine. In her writing. Where she tells me she left me for a dude, who basically outscores me in every course in life. Should I keep it? Or merely store her in my brain cells?
So, I guess I don’t know if I’ll ever get over Sabine. She’s frozen in time. The only way to get over her is to let go of her. Forgive her.
Alright Diary. It was good to talk to you. I feel crazy. But in a good way. Si-Fu-Rakeem is teaching me how to channel my Ti, and I’m also learning Wing-Tai, devastating-wolf-style.
Si-Fu Rakeem lives on Gridlock Island. On the beach. The commute isn’t bad. I just row for about 30 minutes both ways.
Lucas Renard out.