the rules of "it's over" have never been properly outlined. psoriasis leaves its calcium-deposit equivalent in a white-scab...an accumulation of dried gel flakes sheathed over the bumps in my head. i don't feel like sleeping. i don't deserve it. i've done nothing to be deemed worthy of such a reward. i ate hot dogs, listened to industrial music, and screamed for twenty straight minutes. everyone else worked. everyone else earned a wage. i'll let them have my 8 hours. you're the only ones who speak the truth to me and you don't even know it. you've got obligations...people who depend on you...i've got Kathy Acker and Boredoms heading for my mailbox. i've got Isabella Soprano and Cytherea waiting up for me, eager to simulate a "good boy" grin before my spilled fuck. i've got Klaus Nomi at 6 am. Pam and Jim at 9 pm. than i can sleep 'till Monday.
I Dunno... Just a Thought.
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