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. . .
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...