He couldn’t wait to just cut it all off. Every inch of flesh was a word, a sentence, and a life. Like popping a hard, swollen zit. He dreamt of tapping his head and the angry woman sitting silently in front of him reading the paper looking for her name. Looking for names she considered hers, names she had bent. She wasn’t finding anything, and this was putting her in a bad mood. Job was writing about himself, in a deep throbbing egoism pushed towards the final gained ability to ascertain the truth of his identity. She just thought he was a selfish jerk, and that he should spend lots more time taking heed of her sound and hard won advice. Not having the energy at the moment to push this point, she continued reading with a frown on her face. People babbled like popcorn around him, in the recognizably American chicken sound. Maybe he was in Canada, or a hip Tokyo café. The minimum wage was totally unnoticed. Thank god he had never fucked her. For some reason, the hard wooden table he sat at made of smoothly worn eight inch wide planks of pine began to rise from underneath his hands and crumble into an expression. It swallowed cigarette ashes like starved children and the essential salt and pepper shakers slid centrifugally towards and into one another with a bright shrill clack. White and black dust was thrown up into the lampshade’s aura, and it stayed there, floating into organic and fractal shapes. The lamped shade bowed in dishonor as the base slid back against the wall and seductively threatened to fall to the floor. The sugar dispenser tipped over and drew an ‘O’ which would have impressed Godot. The beer list cube, completely freaked out by all this nonsense, tumbled clumsily off the edge first chance it could get and gained a nice fat crack from a good whack at the floor. A battle scar she would bare proudly to the end of her expositional days, glorying in the awed gaze of her teepee cardboard display descendants. The table reached the level of his eyes, and showed off her granular planes of eroded wooden existence, great poems of passing drunk gods had been fingered drunkenly over her exposed creases, true loves had been born and died in moist hands grasping each other over her dark all seeing knots, pride, she was.
With a clunk it all falls down into normality as the angry woman opens her mouth. She speaks of future plans, like always. She’ll do this, she’ll do that, she’ll make up for this other thing, she will, the all powerful healer, the will to something, the intention, the plan, the preconception wherein lies the eternal spring of that fucking sick hope.
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