Really who is still 25?
‘The fuck is Appalachia Roma-s?
Do you want to breed?
Concrete in this malaise. I bite. You bite. This whole thing bites. Wheaties and bails have little or nothing to do with a morning. I mean, well I’m talking about a perfect day, so rule it out.
6 one morning on a saturday I woke up. I paced back and forth. My best friend was sleeping. My other best friend was sleeping closer to me. There was floor between us. I walked to Victoria and back, geeeezzz, i walked to 25 and back... fuck, 21-19. If I walked any further you’d never notice. It showed me why I don’t go to hospital. There’s more breathing room fucked up. Life is pejorative. Its boring. I walked from the couch to the bathroom ten times. I looked out the window. No one was there, or their lights were off.
I was looking for my pants. My penis was next to the next thing I tried to saran wrap. I was trying to frame myself. Thats what you do. I’m not asking. I don’t ask anymore. I assert. You cant be success anymore because grandiose is superfluous in everyones experience. But life is long. Its like sand covers the beach.
Is this even a story?
Does duration imply a story? Or waking? I was awake. I walked back and forth and back and forth. I looked my best friends face in the eyes. They were closed. I had no mind. I had no pants. No fly. No cuff. The room hurt. Door locked in an attrition afflicted building; destiny presently subject to me. Such is architecture. Straight forward, plum and square. There to obstruct airs curves.
There were no pants. I could not have them. I had them, but they were not there. So I paced one leg at a time. Ive never believed that i was a man or that I was a person. I was at gonzo beach and the sand got everywhere. I can’t be serious. Did all my best friends rape me?
I waited for my girlfriend.