Sunday, May 27, 2012
you don't care, even though you were there. and so like you the little exhausted children sleep through all of the noise, and florescent lighting. all of the sickness, and dog fighting and all of my complaints, piteous, wasted breath protests, futile. but complacency, death. and so I shall put this scribbling to good use, like scrubbing the sink, and taking out refuse. Maybe start paying off some of this debt, but those are the little things I always forget.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...