Fifteenth Day with a line from Oscar Wilde

Long run on cut foot. Rabbits everywhere I want to shoot. Consider, quarantine:
Love, this arc trying to unbreak. What is improvement? Sat in the hotel lounge, an Iraq vet
on one hand whose musculature makes him look like he’s
stooping. He suggests a friend of mine is probably stupid. I go to the bar and
a guy with long hair cut in straight lines and blue eyes says something
stupid to me. I want to tip him over by the back of his chair and jump
on his neck. We are all the same person. Pumbakhayon, ta idoplatmo aliguyon.
Stick a knife in my head. In neon Atari palate. Ooooooo. I know
love is patience, waiting outside of oneself, while one’s self stands
beside the other in some line C is in or one walking the high desert while
one lies beside the other in bed, turning in a small, nightly torment.
I do not think this entails seeing oneself as a vegetable or cyborg or a knot of chemical and mechanical processes. Time is a funny thing. Behind sorrow there is only sorrow.






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