Sliding with Jarod.

Ok. Yeah. So, this Jarod Reactor - our Jarod - has liquefied. Like quicksilver, fragile and cool, he pours down the skins of things and drips into the dirt. Maybe that's where he belongs. Maybe there has to be a gritty component.
Dirt.
Everything comes from dirt.
Everything comes to dirt.
Dirt.
But he's moving, he is. There's a point there, isn't there?
I think so.
From the moon drenched rooftops to the earth below - it's the slow slide.
Do it! Do the Slow Slide!
Elegant and primitive, crude and divine, let the emotional motion move you forward.
You can't fight it anyway, Jarod. Be a good boy. Slide.
Mingling with the base and the basic, Jarod trudges on.
Hero? Anti-hero? Zero?
Keep your hands in your pockets, keep your eyes looking forward, keep your thoughts to yourself. Move through this rigid production. Beware of the applicable superstitions. Know your lines. You've got to keep moving. You have to make it through that door.
An odor, a color, a texture, and everything comes flooding back.
Sing out! Sing out!
Everything is everything. And nothing means anything.
A desperate stranglehold on the life force and away we go!
Ride it, Mercurial Cowboy!
Oh, to look at things, to touch things, to taste things.
Things.
Silver things.
Dirty things.
Oh, the things you say.
Oh, the things you do.
Pick up a brush, a pen. Anything to ward off the cataclysm of a sexual explosion.
(Yes, our boy is a sexual being.)
The base. The basic.
I wish I could say "celebrate" and mean it. I remember when I could.
Not anymore.
Quicksilver in the dirt.
Slide with our boy Jarod Reactor. Hold his hand.
He could use some gleaming empathy.
You've got some.
Release it.
Release yourself.