9/26/7 Wednesday PM
I’m going backwards backwards. This path is unfortunate and I have so much more paper elsewhere.
I feel like I should write about friends, but maybe the point is I don’t. A self-absorption beyond distortion an abortion of emotion no relation too shallow friend field fallow selfish heart callow
The story that’s true is a talk of you that’s not really me in reality. The false stories are truer in the sense there’s no fact you’d want to redact, made up from whole cloth, their origins such, veracity doth not matter so much.
How many ways can you lose a friend.
It’s a rhetorical question.
The wife just called with the kid screaming in the background. It’s all loud and cluttered and banal BANAL? My aren’t we superior, feeling awful awful aren’t we. Man I wish I could make sense of me make something of my misery (WOE IS) whoa, whoh, WHO, what the hell thought my washing machine would break my hair and the sun putting on a jacket it will be a long trip home but I don’t mind because the later I arrive means the less amount of time I have to deal with the little monsters. The demons are another story. Expect miracles when you read Ann Patchett’s fiction. Does water turn to wine? Somewhere someone has written the best shit no one’s ever read.
It’s a goddamn paradise. I just wish there were fewer people I had to try not to talk to. I’ve decided to write small because I feel small (although my beer belly grows larger and larger), I feel like I’m becoming invisible. I’m a non-existent mass, I may be visible to those here babbling around me on the boat, but I know I’m not really here because I write so small no one could possibly notice me.
It makes no sense this backward route, what good I should cease to pout more shit to wit this spit I spout a whale sprays displays his ways. I sit and shout for what my gut rebut your claims and sad refrains more of the sames and Puddentanes HUH? Puddintan Puddentain
What where the hell did that come from. Ink to paper ratio will be high.