Am I crazy in what I believe?
"I'm sane in what I feel. ... ?"
"yes. ... ?"
Why do I always worry about worryng?
"thanks."
"I understand."
"..:)thanks."
She might have, I think to seem to want to need to have thought so, wanted me more than assumed.
"Do you always feel this way?"
Always.
always..
all ways...
"Sometimes."
There she was. Smothering me. Smothering her, smothering me.
I wanted to clarify with with a confident...
"Always!"
"Allwaaayyssssz waaah?"
"Sorry I'm late."
"But we've been here for hours!"
"oh ... It always happens this way." He looks around. The kind of bar that looks like midnight at noon, daylight squeezing around the shades, remnants of possibility, memories of future plans. And everyone knows the future isn't so much planned as prescribed. He chooses his next words carefully.
: "It's a bust, all in shambles, yeea?"
"What was that?" The fancy pants bartender, leaning in, out of place in this here place. But he matches the fireplace quite nicely. She answers for him.
: "He said, nevermind, just always rambles."
I have to get out of here. This one's just a thought, not much room to verbalize, and out on the street it takes longer to pass, it's done before it begins, and he turns to reenter. The front door is nailed shut, a layer of dust on the boards blocking. Fuck it's hot out. Use the back of your hand to wipe the sweat off your brow, that's what they say. Fuck. Double Fuck.
Don't write your Highly Important Directions on the back of your hand.
They also say that.
Here they come.
: "You don't like the joint, eh?
Keep 'em coming.
Simple conclusions to your illusions of me.
Allusions of me, in me.
: "Yeah. "We" were just discussing my incessantly
insisting, persisting habitual talking mind and I made a comment about
this "place".
Wow...
Never'd done that before.
Couldn't of been felt to have been said any better, for me, by me.
Instead of allowing myself, by myself, to do the motions of what was
written or to seep to my written laws of the unapproachable, I gave him,
me.
really.
:"Yeah, yeah. I've been saying the same thing to Stim, But the dude, slip and
spill lacks room for such straight-headed trained "train of thought".
Keeps you guys coming... ?"
Hmmm. Not what I expected.
The strut to his smart-assed remark at the end still left me to a strong wave of emotioned thought,...
made "we" smile.
: "No actually the girl who answered for me also had sense in the word to give the directions for the night."
I dropped from my peripheral, to my directly attention, pupil driven, attention given, sight.
She made a slight gasp.
She was the silent type.
I think.
She switch her sight, to her directly filling, glazed, but yielding , drought mimicked, stream meaninged, hurt, "melankholia" glare.
I wanted to say something, but {I could not have been bothered}.
Still when she left. I looked at where she was supposed to have been.
"As that, as her logic, she isn't so far off for being the "decision-maker" of the evening. I've seen her making many decisions for many men"...;)
When I returned to my initial comedic "fancy" vantage point, his pants where pouring the next hammers to put up nails and boards and to put down.
The sweat on all their there-faces and eyes, fixated on the tops of palms and the bottom of the prize at the end, slim enough to expose their physiological stress of the matter and to make-up to cover up the exposé, was at its midnight morning prime.
A layer of dust on the boards blocking.
{They} say a lot.
So. No logic, and no time.
Since the age of eight, this man had no home. At eleven, he stopped carrying a watch. It was almost midnight now.
The easiest way to know this was to write the time on the back of the hand. He developed a system, once a week, high noon, Monday (not that the date made any difference).
As it faded, so the time passed. Time moves quicker in summer, slower in free fall.
He shivered - way too cold for a hot summer night. Was it night? How could the sun be out at midnight? His hands were failing him, sitting here on the same street sofa, day out day in day out, fuck forgot to forget the days, once every so often the same man would exit the abandoned building across the lane, aggravated, there's no way back in.
But something was different this time around, across he came, stopping in the middle to light his pipe, puffing, approaching, huffing, hawking, spit, splat!
"By way of day, my friend, have you got the time?" Tap tap tap. Tap.
Sofa looked up, squinting. This must be an Indian sun. Back in the day they'd learned to respect it, to fear it, now it's all a farce. He contemplated, for a moment, how little the distance to travel from farce to force, nodded, unbuttoned his jacket with threads crumbling. You ever met a man wearing a cleaver as a necklace? You don't want to, but you just met Sofa, and now you watch him use his necklace to remove his own left hand, one go, doesn't even take it off his neck.
Splat!
The man looks down at the severed hand lying at his feet.
"I'll give you the time, but I ain't cha friend."
It's so wonderful to notice a human's consistent complementary poetic stanza the moment the massage starts.
The encouragement and it's lengths reached when we unconsciously beg the humane to continue with the satisfacting
motions!
:"Maybe that's what the art of deceit swings from."
The places we go.
The Places we Go.
TIme is something to think about...?¿
Once you forget it.
Get her off for good.
It can't exist when it can't be thought about.
"you know?"
::"I'm following a part of it."
"I mean all these people here."
He is not he.
There is always a shorter way around it.
...
Shorter can't exist with my hand gone.
The Sun told me to do it.
"Tell us to do it."
::"A hand full of strangers, all friends of mine, tell me....-US!
;;That we've sinned from our own misfortunes?!?"
::..............
That pause allowed enough time for his alcohol driven sweat to pass the transition from his chin to
the bar's deck.
Do I consider my own misfortunes?
"I hate witnessing my own misfortunes...
it makes (We) injust for all my justifications.
...and there are better ways of losing Pride."...¿/?
His eyes glimmered, a bit more closer to the girls before, water-battered...
buuuuut anger driven?
At least she left without confronting herself or justifing her self to me.
Femininity trait?
::"Yeah.Our Masculine side."
Fed, to be fed up, under these circumstances before.
....the end
