A starter’s pistol in the hands of an arrested 31 year-old. Developed arrestment, that is. The days are almost at their fewest. Two more nights counting this, which makes time short and funny-feeling. It is a very good funny, in case you were wondering.
“That’s my thing. My thing that I do. That I spend the majority of my time here doing.” The unconscious inclusion of ‘here’ presupposes the existence of an elsewhere, of which there exists no certain knowledge. Stay the course then, but play the odds that this it. It would be absolutely ridiculous not to. There is an argument for a wasted 9 years. Though that depends on one’s definition of ‘wasted’. And you see, the argument falls in on itself in an intractable heap of sorrowness. The depressing strings gain sound, becoming louder and happier than any normal Tuesday evening.
