I haven't written (or read) anything in about a week. It feels disgusting. I don't know where it's come from but I want it gone. This job and these friends (neither of which really exist) and all these goddamn thoughts.
Tomorrow (today) is Biodome Double Pizza Bell Centre box office. Tomorrow (two days) is blankets lines rain Radiohead back home tired exhausted. And Thursday, maybe Jin and Sandy, maybe. Somewhere in there does Uncle Con get in touch?
(Discordant music interlude.)
Here's to my future, here's to no future. Here's to finishing behind. Hardons heartaches pistons piss-takes. Vipers and rare blood types. Still have to finish A Portrait and The Brothers. Still have to finish Day Sixteen. Still have to keep slogging. Clean out the sink, clean out my wardrobe.
Clean out my cluttered head.
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