i haven't read a book in ages. can't get my eyes to focus on the words, so i've fleed (flown? flew? flea?) for the graphic-novel-picture-book hills. i read at high speeds because i'm more concerned with finishing than anything else, love the feel of only 5-4-3-2-1 page left until the end, the end, and then another beginning. so completely boring is my thinking - give me one adjective and i'll give you its antonym, always what's given and nothing can be returned. last sale bins, rummaging for old ladies' nylons or last season's holiday decorations, a sickly green aura in the air, i think that's the patron saint of the last ditch highway stop. i stop. admonish myself: write what you know! this is the promise of the authentic; everything i know is fake. fake or shit. the strain strain strain of production keep going production keep making production keep on production forget about finishing production keeping keeping keeping keeping

i am my only keeper