#2

Spoke to you on the phone this afternoon.  Nite you’re time.  Or your time.  Afraid I said too much.  Big fat smelly guy alert.  Afraid that I gave myself too much away.  Opened up to a fatal blow.  At least if it were to use literary form.  Though my dream last nite did scare me.  Deeply.  Almost physically.  And just this moment I remember.  Vaguely. A dream I had several years ago.  In Richmond.  About you.  And a baby carriage.  A hope.  A fear.  A premonition.  Who knows.  Especially with a complete lack of details now.  I do remember writing down a note on the dream because of its vividness.  When I get home I’ll see if I can find that note.  Probably not.  But I do save most everything.  Every scribble like it’s a deposit in a blood bank.  And it is. Role playing games.  Make me sick to my stomach.  Petty escapism.  If you’re going to do something then do it right.  Nothing petty.  That’s a cop out.  Petty is lowest common denominator.  for the unimaginative.  The feeble minded and feeble willed.  And I’m neither.  I hope.  But delusions would not be the newest fad.  Pump Friction.  Would I move back to New England?  A startling thought.  New this morning.  Not the ideal place.  Not a comfort zone.  But that’s not taking you into account.  Not taking my new life into account.  My first taste of stability.  The fears and monsters of the area would surely be diminished if not destroyed now.  Do I sound like I’m trying to talk myself into New England?  Maybe I am.  Feels like it to me.  But then again I’ve been wrong before.  Imagine if you will.  And no religion too. What are you trying to say? Suspenders and belt is back.  Image limited.  Wallet chain.  White T-shirt.  Boots.  Shaved head.  Intellect is in reverse proportion to image presented.  It only comes around every 9000 years.  Maybe next time.  Played Trivial Pursuit this afternoon with the people from the coffee house.  I the man.  I the man.  I got a lecture the other day about saying I’M SORRY.  Because I’m not sorry.  In the pathetic sense.  I am not a sorry person a pathetic person.  I should above all people be aware of what it is I’m saying.  Connotation and Denotation.  That whole writer thing reaching up and biting me in the ass.  Thank god I’m a waiter on the side.  Actually if only I wasn’t.  If I actually had the time to write.  The leisure.  Leisure.  As much as is gained by working ten times as much is lost.  In times inspiration has to pass by.  In experiences put off or never entered into.  In routine.  Routine and writing work in opposition.  At least my writing.  Life writing.  Life flows pulses explodes.  To limit it to time and form is to straitjacket life. To break the legs of what you’re trying to bring to the page.  Fits and starts.  Like every subject.  Brooding boy is here on his image motorcycle.  Still no date.  That’s a guy with no personality.  Time to fetch yesterday’s paper.  Missed Fox Trot.  Hope its in the comics out there.  Its very drugged.  Off but back soon.

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