Let’s say I was a puppy with no eyes. Would you pick me up? Would still think I’m cute? Would you let me lick the sweets from your lips, the lollipop you were sucking so hard on.
There’s no point in answering the question because I wouldn’t be able to see you to lick you, to have you have to answer this question that I ask, so, like the blind tongues of newborns, there’s no point. Death is waiting.
Where is the thing that all people want when the washing machine is going and there is nothing to do but watch it roll and roll and roll and roll and roll and roll and roll …?
Show it to me and I will show you how to be the one who sees time in shiny vaseline faces. I will show you the ears with their worming creatures, in and out, to see the world and to feel the world and to taste the world, and to be the world and to be the one to have been the world and to now be the one who once was the world.
These are the things I think about when I want to kill someone with a machete, waiting for my turn to stand once more and to be once more alone once more with my washed warm clothes. Life is an ironing board.
1. Keep this shit up to date.
2. Edit novel over Summer, and get everything ready for its publication.
3. Gain some fuckin’ muscles.
4. Eat more healthily.
5. Blah blah blah — none of this shit matters anyway: we’re all going to shit ourselves when we die.