(6 more pictures after words)
When you can’t sleep you dream and get your rest with your eyes open. You read about huck finn and talk in circles about the upcoming revolution that you’ll not be in charge of, nor want to even consider taking up arms in. When you can’t sleep you qualify your existence to no end. You bleed with blood-shot eyes egg white piercing tongues of the sadness of a lone girl who broke her back and told all about the abuse she suffered by the only three men that she said she ever loved. She said that she will die a martyr. You didn’t care, but couldn’t really even if you wanted to. They said you interrupted too much, and you did, but when you didn’t speak at all, what happened was this: They talked to you all night long, and this was ok, it’s just…
You said yeah, that’s how it goes. What she said, right you said, and this wasn’t the right response within this type of conversation, but hell, you were tired; you were on your long walk home from over a hundred miles away, and now you haven’t touched your hot coffee, now cold coffee, as you’re lost watching a lone fly on a table walking slowly like a timid dog that’s hot and full of life and cold with the determination to live and this fly, now this fly is waking passed the coffee and sits washing his hands on the wires that were empowered to wake up before you even had the chance to thrive.
But go…Go. Go where now?
(It was Sunday the 21st of October when I wrote this. The day that it was decided that Jon Paul Sartre would receive the Nobel prize for literature. He refused the award. This information is a strange occurrence when it subjectively lines up with the mood that carried me home. Then again, everything is, weird that is.)
Adventures In American Writing 