​As of yet there is nowhere to revolt; The pain Edward has developed, fomented in revolutionary desire, is unfailingly old, a wounded property that springs from the dusty decadent lust of the vampire. 

Edward’s take on capital neglects the world-market, a naive assessment of the expropriators and excesses of production strained through the gnat’s asshole of Forks, Wash. He is an accomplished primitive, no deeper than a call jar. But in the process of cutting lurks the transformation of the world.  Private production is the animal to keep them guessing, the secular monster we laugh over because we do not comprehend. 

You are teen property, limited, increasing words, smug, assured, lost and insecure. Shallow as the tombstone complexion of a desperately snorting Executive Producer.  You think you have succeeded history because you know nothing of it. Edward fixed his eyes on me, spoke of the fixed labor process.

“I was human (and violent). I had that capitalistic cheek. You were the hardest development, an immanent vampire, and back then I wore revolution like a badge.”

The tells hurt; Decomposed Edward Cullen, his small and technical methods, the centuries of decay upon his cracking lips. It chastely attracted Bella, infamous instrument of a people cooking in the juices of a yesterday that never was and a today that will not see. The Victorian usurps her, the modern-day stirs in her womb, making a scent only Bella can appreciate. For you suckers (sucked), it is a ghostly promise, the Emperor’s new nose.

My dumb Pa was griddling newspapers for breakfast. 
“Ha. nine-thirty to noodles I am going to say something you can feel superior about, Bella.”

Crabby crabby man. 

I am the immanent swan— diminishing  itself. All teeth and breathless sighs. My tower is an expropriation of swooning, fresh lamb for dinner, an impenetrable private commitment.

Members of the jury, I put it to you that the passions of Bella are the wrinkled death throes of the teenage voice, the screaming  pocket scent of a lid upon the cauldron whose material you cannot fathom, a cooking pot you cannot see, that you think is Love or a perfumed dress. So I skirt around the fire. Your desire is real but it is strangled. The object you have been given is strangling you. Cut it up.