Squash

every week into a day.

I am a geographic. External processor until I ingest something nasty, oh hello life little pelican hunt out on the dock! How are you doing this fine evening? What is that? You have nobody to drunk dial now smoking your fag from your pointy orange beak, etched with 10 or 20 indents proving battles or ill wills or poor decisions oh isn't that the worst? Isn't that the absolute worst, darling? To invest all that time, all of your money hoping to shed yourself enough to be loved, to be engaged only to walk home alone and fuming? To walk home unsteady, unprepared for the creepy morning, dark yellow and insidious flowing from all corners? I get it. The gust from under a feather. A poke at something you knew was dead. Empty chalis, ringing with your metal hitting the rim, it doesn't stuff it up. Nothing stuffs it up. Where will you go? We're all tired of saying goodbye. I'm tired of hearing it. Adieu, nothing comes of it.