fist-fucking the sweet baby jesus
I don't know what floor I'm on. I only suspect that, yes, trees do use each other to hide. Tell me about taken. Or how sunglasses are ear plugs for the eyes. Remember the sun in all its horrible decibels? Why won't someone invent a psychic umbrella for when the thoughts rain? The bus never comes until your shoulders slump in permanent resignation. You might imagine laughter, but no one's in the windows--not even a driver. I know I'm doomed to bowl alone in purgatory. Forever. Or stack newspapers under clock hands that tick and tock but never seem to move. Or do inventory in an supermarket bigger than a hundred million square miles. Forever. Or trying to deliver mail to co-workers who keep switching floors and faces.