A man with his hands in his pockets learns to read literature like a professor in front of a castle in France where I cried, lying on my couch on my side.
Mixed imagery and mixed metaphors make sense. No sense. I have bruises on the side of my hands that make it sort of difficult and sort of painful to type, and this jumbled running style is how I'm feeling. I can't organize into Frankenstein and this Kohlberg moral development because my thoughts are scattered.
I am scattered and all over the place and lonely and sad and I miss things and I blame this on a lack of busy or maybe just the wrong kind of busy and I'm even jumbling my languages, jumping from one to another and then to the dentist.
I like the dentist, even though technically I don't think you're supposed to. I like my teeth being clean and I like things that just let you sit for a while, without the guilt that you're probably supposed to be doing something else, something more productive. Working.
I have gotten lazy. And something good has ended that I never knew was good until it was done. I feel like a mourner--no black! Purple today. A plum color. And somehow, for some reason or other, all my jeans have gone missing.
That might be the worst injustice of all.
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