The half-neon sign is either a metaphor for death or an allusion to deco-retro film fantasies. Moses, not one of these, was on in the laundry and there was a small crowd standing around watching. I hung around for a moment and remembered my exam on the lineage of kings years ago; I was stuydying for it for hours in from of the student services administration and flirted with some freshman girl for a while. I can’t remember if that was before or after they tore out the “freestyle fountain” and replaced it with the ugly new UMFA.
Since I stole the socket flourescent and replaced it with a blue bulb, the room is darker, more like the space I used to have, though not as colorful, and without as many things hanging all about.
I never look like myself in person, and I never look like myself in pictures, either. There’s a reason for that: there is no self. It’s a trick.
Time to self-medicate and write something.
Same old, same old. You’d think I would be used to it by now. I suddenly remember Heather and her pride at winning the pissing contest. I also remember walking twenty-two miles to buy oil on the most occult night in living memory. Invisible triple-six pirate dreams on the giant crosses, just past the altar by the Nephi exit. Harmir, do you remember the Cuneiform and Greek characters in the tar that night? Odd shit. Truly odd. God, that was a long time ago. Blah. Twenty-two miles.
Same old, same old. Gotta get my laundry; gotta get a drink.