recluse-boy. I saw another
subway rider wearing a shirt today with that on the front.I wondered if he was for real or just out for the twenty-something, perky breasted
groupies. A tall lanky thing, handsome in an
indie-rock way, reading the new
CMJ for this week. I'm guessing groupie boy. He seems to be affronting some weird angle on being alone. Dick.
walked home to the calming,solid conversation of the sidewalk and my hands tapping
3/4 beats in drop-off pattern successions. My
jansport is filled with two newly purchased
six packs of
guinness, a book of
lightwave tutorials, and five old
letters from five old
girlfriends I've taken to keeping on me at all times. The little girl of the couple next door
sits on my stoop, waiting for the rain to lighten up. She smiles and offers up her thomas-the-stuffed-bear for me to pat on the head as I key into my apartment.
I size myself up to maybe a .085
intoxication before the lightwave tutorials and texture heirarchies will cease to make any sense to me. I don't want to
vomit on my keyboard again. With various limbs of the park corner oak aggressively dying in my
fireplace, I relax and enjoy the buzz. Maybe I'll resume my conversation with
Neal about his writings on
detachment 2702. We can always chat lively once I hit that .09 intoxication. Thoughts of the handsome boy with the weird shirt come into my mind again. Recluse boy my ass. I'll be the binary
bukowski haunting that fucker in his
dreams tonight.