Casting JonBenet Stream of Consciousness

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I picture you, sitting there at your computer screen, reading this. It's a movie review, you think. I picture you on your phone in bed before falling asleep, reading this. I watched that movie on Netflix. I picture you reading this on your iPad on the subway. Weird. It was weird. I picture you having blond hair. I picture you reading, while brunette. You're skinny. You're not skinny. You're having a bloated kind of day because you ate all of the muffins you could find. Every goddamned muffin. I don't know who killed that girl.

You're reading this and thinking I'm crazy. What kind of a review is this? You're reading this, a redhead, a muffin in each hand, thinking you have no idea what I am talking about but you'll go with it - you need something to distract you while the muffins go down. (Isn't that a song?) Is there someone else in the room? A kind of blonde brown-haired red-headed specter flitting about in the background? Bashed her head right in.

Someone is taking a shower in the other room. Watching TV. On the phone. Strangers are closing in around, mobs of them, on the subway platform. Melons, exploding melons, and little boys. They are reading things on their phones, and iPads, their Nooks and Kindles and Galaxy Androids. One of them just committed an atrocity. One of them did not do that. Several of them did not do that. None of them did, you maniac. There's a dog, somewhere, I sense a dog. I heard a dog once. I saw it in a movie. Somebody told me the story of a dog that was in a movie, and it was kind of blondish, and it committed seppuku with a rusty scythe. Dance, monkey, dance.

Or something. You said that. You did that. I heard that. A girl at the bank told me that you did that, or that you told her that story, one of those things. While I was writing this I got an email about lizard people, no lie. Or if I write it, in the writing, the vomiting up and out, and if I omit a detail or ten, perhaps it's a lie. Who's to say? I mean I could say but who the fuck am I anyway? 

The truth comes about only in the remembering. The day old bread. I conjured it out of nothing and I gave you ten different kinds of it and they all became something of substance, a truth of sorts, for a second anyway. Now think back: who killed who? What did you hear and when did you hear it and who said it and why? What color were their eyes cast against the sky, or the pulsating TV screen?