P.S. (which is still P.S. even though this at the beginning and not the end because I'm making it a PRE-script and not a POST-script, thought I'm positive there is an actual term for what I'm doing now...) This is meant to be read without pausing. Try doing it without taking a breath and see what happens.
Remember that my anal retentiveness comes from my heart and not my stomach, because I have the semblance of being overbearing, but as long as you know that I am doing it in love and not in obscenity you won’t feel handcuffs but caresses, and I find the run on sentence to be attractive and the comma to be an EYESORE, but I use them all the time. See, I put one in a sentence about how much I hate them. I feel for the birds here because they have to listen to constant aggravation/argument which they can only attempt to drown out with their thin, tinkering, screeching or song as “the masses” may so call it.
You can hear pigeons wings hit flesh when they flap them so violently, like meat hitting on meat.
I bought a lot of books yesterday and books equate to life, so I bought page after page of life yesterday. Logic and reasoning still astound me to this day. I stayed up ‘til 6 in the morning last night having unintelligent conversations about Camus which sounded a lot like Shamu or Shampoo and I can’t even get clean by washing with his words, it’ll only do damage to damaged hair and make muck mire and not clean. And this boy mispronounced Jean-Paul Sartre’s name. He chopped up the syllables and they sounded a lot more like Sare-trey which doesn’t even sound French and he said Camus died in a car crash which I know, and car crashes remind me of James Dean, James Dead – King of Cool, the kind of cool you can’t fake, and Jayne Mansfield, who I don’t care about, and sex and stretch marks because of Ballard, you crazy old fuck. Neither Voltaire nor Moliere ever came up in the conversation, thank god.
This girl came up to me on the street and said, so quickly, slurring her every word, “Have you seen any homeless people, because I have all this fucking free food to give them and of course, no, I can’t find any.” So I pointed her in the direction of the nearest homeless man I could see, and not a woman because I didn’t see any, and we parted ways. And I seem to be having strange conversations with the streets these days, not so much with my bed sheets, and they make me hate Robert Frost even more and his fucking “The Road Less Travelled” or whatever-the-fuck. Fuck?
Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I love nostalgia, but sometimes it can only make everything disastrously more difficult. I’m not even sure if there was anything to be nostalgic about in the first place that I can be sad about not being there for me now. Maybe I’m nostalgic for things that never happened to me, things that happened 30 or 40 years earlier and what makes that so hard is that I wasn’t even born yet.
Things are only more difficult now than they used to be because the literary heroes have deemed it so (NO HEROES, NO IDOL WORSHIP, NO IDLE WORSHIP).
Never Sleep Ever.
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