the bomb-head man on the sidewalk on casa st. seems to feel my pain. to feel so metaphysically capable and yet not be able to put the words together for the general concept of pretty. here is what i say.
on my walk home last week, i stopped to take a picture of the bomb-head man on the sidewalk on casa st.
there was a pile of dog shit a couple feet away, and i felt more similar to that block of cement than i maybe ever did to you.
they all say im crazy and that i should be pissed, but they didnt hear how you said it, so they dont understand.
what you said were lies or truths, but i dont really think it matters enough to know the difference anymore.
id still sit here and try to figure out if its better to swallow glass or scrap metal, and which is better for my composure.
i hate that all i have to write about is you.
i think that most people settle for the reasoning that the meaning of life is in the mass movement.
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