Trapdoor Fucking Exit, Part 1Andrew Mister
People who come out of nowhere to try to put into words any part of what goes on in their heads are pigs —Artaud Yesterday, woke past noon and noticed through the window like an airplane suspended in that perfect sky’s changing a bough. Sat down and made a list of things that I ask of life: 1) let me have sex when I feel like it 2) let me shut up every once in a while 3) let my drug dealer call me back 4) Stopped short because the list thing wasn’t working. It’s just the blank mind that’s killing me, I mean what am I thinking about: thinking. On the street car windshields look like miniature lakes pocked with clouds. People are speaking in headlines. I am getting high and watching Seinfeld. No, I’m not, I’m writing but I’d like to be watching anything other than the sun suffocate beneath a pillow. And it’s not yesterday, it’s today: we are not “you and I” anymore. Not for now at least. Each word is a wish to move beyond the world or that the world might collapse beneath its description with which I know I need a lot of help but I’m just trying to say what everyone already knows about themselves about me. There is a message from you on the machine saying “hold your breath” or “don’t hold your breath” I’m not sure which. We are not “you and I” anymore, anyway. There are things to get excited about, things I’d like to forget about myself. There are things that you do that will always annoy me: 1) no matter what you will stir your coffee with a spoon and then leave that spoon (a) on the table, (b) on the kitchen counter, (c) on your desk. That’s enough things for now.
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