rafael pyton

I apologize profusely for upsetting the viewer with the atom anatomy of myself, but I want there to be no doubt to my story of the King Of Pain. Every word of it is true, every feeling was felt and every sensation sensed and super-sensed.

Today, to the day, it has been two years since motorcycle boy came tumbling down from outer space. And landing hard.
By publishing these pictures, I celebrate my second life. I’ve been very blessed, because man is usually restricted to one only.

Feel free to feel sick. It means you have heart and compassion and an ever-so-slight idea as to how much it actually hurts when your whole lower end disintegrates.

The pictures [bar one] were taken with a mobile phone, a shaky hand, a drugged head, and 20kg less muscle in the body. And that is not Osama Bin Laden above; it is me, in the twilight zone, stoned to half-death on OxyContin, OxyNorm, various sleeping pills that end with -pam, and about twenty other lesser lethal pills. See the glaze in my eyes? Happy thoughts do not exist behind them. I could cry for a day without knowing why.

Thanks for watching. I do apologize profusely for not being able to provide you with the worst pictures - those from the first month. However, during that time I was a zombie, with my spine connected to a machine, and, uh… zombies don’t make very good photographers. Perhaps it is just as well? Too much reality is never good.

Instead, I treat myself to a pre-crash picture. *Sigh*. I can just feel every toe working properly…

As we were one day, lazing in the lucky sun, feeling perfectly indestructable, holding the keys to the world and plotting to rule even more.
Truly, if I got these legs back now, I could outrun the devil. I could jump higher than God. I could walk on water.

I would walk on water.