home | | | | | |archive | | | | | |profile | | | | | |notes | | | | | |previous | | | | | |next

pornographic doom manual

I mentally whispered your name in the winter bookstore. We all need a place to go, when the sun goes away. Remember Central Valley fastfood drive-thru's? And lonely masturbation in the breath of an evening? My ear pressed to the door, listening to footsteps in the hallway. And the smell of cigarette smoke through the cracks in my door was louder than the footsteps and all their reverberations. Look carefully at the smoke: it makes a kind of visual reverberation, right? Pornographic magazines help invoke a ghost. When you're done walking the streets at one in the morning. I had a job shuffling newspapers. And they made paper of my hands. I never crossed a body of water without feeling the urge to jump in and be done with daylight forever. Oh fuck this diary. I miss being too young to be nostaligic for anything.

Fuck this diary. And fuck friday nights lost in the wine cycle.

I leave you now, dear imaginary reader.

Good night.


previous | next