It's almost 6am now thursday morning.

the sun has risen & spillt all its light in my windows.

I could tell you the temperature.
It's hot. It's cold. I'm lying.

My words belong to spite & Dostoyevsky & I say them with pride. because I have to.
I write them.
I'm lying.

My head is full of glossy newspaper advertisements & throw away coffeecups.

My head is full of adventure and the future, the next chapter in the plot
(my head is full of plots).

My head is full of thoughts about my friends & family.
They will not be trivialized by novels
the story does not exist to cover the wonderful madness of my loved ones.
I think of them.

Nothing I say is true anymore.
Something I said has truth.

I feel the decay in my words & it saddens me.
I want to carve these words into a brick:
"The time is 5:26am"

I feel like an old man.
Everyday it feels like I get older.
I have no fear of death.
I've felt cosmic vibrations while eating fruit loops. I've smoked a bug.
ha, I repeat,
I've smoked a bug.

Take that, tom mooney.
Take that, allen ginsberg.
I will not drink your tea, take india away from me.
I hate yoga. I practice every day.
Both of these things are false.

I have floundered around too long, far too long, in this silly place.
I am losing, & I hate it.

I am a little boy.

I think I will take my ball, & go home.