I forgot why I was
doing this. I forgot why I was doing
this.
Stranger conversations than this have begun with
less enthusiasm. And
tasted less like onions.
The bubblegum in his mouth grew less and less
dry, like the language of commodity. If I really knew
that I were here would I really care? Rather than, say,
there? My primary
plant wilted as this did not blow
my mind. At all. For emphasis?
Which threw me into
a bingo frenzy. I
daubed well into the night and awoke
from a narcotic frenzy of shallow, binary dreams. And
to discover that I had not vacuumed. After all.
As if.
As if I had forgotten why I was doing this.
