Thread by @VoxPopPDX

Portland Protest Gothic: A Thread

This is the 5th warning. This is the 89th warning. This is the 2nd warning. You await the final warning.

The voice speaks. The crowd raises their leaf blowers in anticipation. The gas comes. Unbudging, they disperse the gas west.

It is the Elk. It is a stag, but it is the Elk and also the Stag.

You are in line for food, the Feds push into the park. The crowd scatters. The line reforms, exactly as it was.

Any fence put up must be dismantled before sunrise. It is a sacred duty, holy work.

There is something in the Justice Center they do not want us to know about. What lives in the belly of the beast? Sometimes a door opens to pick off stragglers.

How can you be certain your friends have faces? How can you be certain you have a face, for that matter?

You get separated from your friends. You find them two minutes later. They look surprised to see you. They have not seen you in two days.

You're fairly positive you see your son's preschool teacher but you laugh the thought off.

You speak in 280 characters or less.

Helpless, you watch the streams cross. The crack in reality widens.

A zoomer calls you out of touch. Your heart swells with love. The kids are alright. The feral kids are even better.

Every street you turn down has an advancing line of riot cops. The city is a kettle.

You cannot tell if the graffiti is cleaned every day or if the words get antsy and move. They are unreliable landmarks.

The statues are afraid. The age of false idols is coming to an end. They tremble and await their fate. We see them for what they are and they are scared.

You are walking downtown in the afternoon. The street sign says SW 3rd & Main but you cannot recognize it. It is too silent, it is not cloudy, it smells different. Where are you?

Scientists come from all over to study the flocking patterns of the free range Cascadian Antfia.

The food is free but comes at a steep cost. You realize too late it is a faerie racket. The ribs taste too good to care.

The Witches will protect you. The Witches. The Witches.

There is a Bureau with the gift of speech. We do not question it.

Every day is Thursday.

There are 5 more months of 2020. The next New Year isn't for another century. We are out of time. We are outside of time. We have run out of time.

We have always done this every night.

{Go on, add your own}

You're surprised to find the numbers on your skin are not a tattoo.

Even ghost peppers are flavorless after some time. Even in mobs.

No one outside of Portland knows what Portland is. The truth is too complicated.

Mom is on Signal!

You make a satire PPB account. You make a Tweet. Seconds later, the real PPB makes the same one. Your predictive text gets more advanced with time.

You cut your finger chopping veggies at home. You yell for a medic. You feel foolish for a second but your blood has summoned one.

The strippers strike. Their aim is dead accurate.

With growing horror you realize the barricades have all been taken away to make a bigger barricade far away.

It's not a cult, it's an affinity group. Totally different vibe.

Your encrypt your thoughts . Can't be too careful.