Boohoo you were born in a cult. (Nate Hoil)

The alien cult hacks your cellphone camera as the air conditioners keep your future corpse from spoiling. I hope you like soaking in marinated space. You are going to spin over flames on a stick.

“No memory is nice here,” says my beautiful reptile to her temperamental cleaver. I’d take her for a walk but the ground might end where the walls start. I’d surprise her with gifts but I quit jumping out of cakes in my underwear a long time ago. The last time I jumped out of a cake I was met with a circle of flame throwers.

My brain plays piano notes out of my ears as I trust fall towards heaven and land on my head. I’ve never felt bad about anything. Now is a good time to mention that I am drowning in my own drool.


Nate Hoil is as old as time. He has spent the last 100 years wandering the ruins of an advanced society deep beneath the outer layer of earth. You can find more of his work at 


image: Lindsay Hargrave