eyes sore like a bastard, like my shoulders, like the music watered over me. I rest in these blankets this strange winter. I could die, a train car could smash me open, slide over me, they’d curse me for jamming up rush hour, for being . . . selfish. hmmm. eyes sore, like I said, from color correcting photos all day at work. this one needs a little more red. this one has too much yellow. wish I could actually help people though. wish I had some damn courage to tell someone, hey man, you should cut that out. you’ve got too much hate, you’re too scared, why don’t you cut back on that. it’s not that easy, or I just think it’s not.
well, I should write you a letter, but I don’t know what to say. I’m just going through a lot of trouble and lonely times for the most part, reading Salinger on the train, and some shorts by Kafka. my hair is growing long and scruffy. every time I think of my mother I think of how she has something negative or discouraging to say every single time, and it stops me from picking up that phone. the days are too long, and life is too short. race car drivers are dying. I couldn’t believe that, how on the news, she announced this tragedy, then brought up the weather, said we’ll be right back, and faded to a commercial. no, I could actually. it didn’t shock me. what shocks me any more? at work this is brought up, and it’s painful. because they make light of everything. hell, I don’t know the guy myself, but I’d do better probably not to say a thing. I wish you well, wherever, whoever, you are.
bathtub water sounds
batches of files/folders
soft batch cookies
childhood fire engines
they put the fear of God in me
the thoughts I carried around
and still do
not easy
uneasy
dis-ease
diseased
why the talk of phobias? agra-phobia. acrophobia. claustrophobia,. the mouth wants to run along like a pen.
I throw things. I throw my water bottle, my pen, up over the shelf into the isle. break a whole through being bored to tears. no excitement.
you’re right on with your complaints. you’ve got it razor sharp wise like potato chips. why thank you, thank you. doesn’t come without bleeding out of the eyes.
I do claim however, if anything, my taste in music is anything but poor.
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