yes, i am smoking this cigarette because i think its romantic. you win.
i'm smoking this cigarette because i'm forever unsure of what the fuck to do with my hands when they're not pressing hard into the taut skin on your upper arms and shoulders. i cried today in the pharmacy and no one noticed so i stole a nail polish, it was named 'bare bones' and its title did it justice. it doesn't matter, it's not important.
just everybody fuck off with your needs and your slow shaking heads. look me in the eyes. because all the people i used to know are all having babies and i just write poem after poem after poem about dead ones. today driving on route 212, this song came on that i knew, for sure, i had not heard for two whole years, two years ago, laying on a surgical bed covered in paper.
i was going faster than 55 miles per hour and the speed limit was 40.
i knew there was no god, lying there on that surgical bed, god would never speak this loudly. through how many realms of reality did that specific song have to pass through to find me there then? right there with the doctors hands all over me and the crackling paper.
i know what i wrote, when i wrote about it but the truth is i kept playing that song after it came on, i kept hitting backwards so it would go again, circles around to where it was before, so i hope to see you soon in some other form.
passing every road sign in the car today my throat was filled with hummingbirds that know to never stop moving, or else. "or else," they say to me. cop cars passed me by one by one but never pulled me over.
david foster wallace