Thursday, July 7, 2011

Bored, Committed to Prose

It's morning and this is not the morning I wanted. I spent the day reading about criminals on the lam. Woke up bored, committed to prose. Damn commercialism!

Damn rain which makes walking the dog so undesirable. Racist basset hounds. A game of battleship left out all night. Depending on how you look at it, no options is the best option.

A speck of dust confused with a period. What you write with writes you or at least it's fun to think so. Strands of gray. Yet more denial.

I always cross the gossip line second and pretend that makes it right. People who leave tend not to come back. Statistics will kill you. Will the woman in Colorado please stand up?

Ignore me but not my backgammon. This morning is the only one I have, right? The textual evidence indicates that Tony Soprano died, period. Emily Dickinson does not attend.

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