Oct 10, 2014
4:30pm
As my pen hits paper I can feel a blister form. Clay hands stained soft pink. My laces. Untied on my laceless thrift.
Rubbing a heel A part of my leg Against the chair's leg. Without the heal. Oh fuck I'm a wit. Kind of like this morning. More painful.
But kind of like this morning. Yet preventable.
Not at all like this morning.
I'm out? Really? Fuck. Why? Pathetic pen. I work. I'm working. Like a tractor in Detroit Catching the quickest train stop to Dallas. It sits. Wheels greased. All slicked up for it's upcoming interview. Why is the train so late? I'm going to be late. It better not stop. Fuck I'm going to be late. It's stopping. Fuck. It's stopping. Just like God's ink.
I am inanimate.