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in. I'll pretend to listen. Nod my head -- it's easier. Agree with short affirmations. Look interested immensely, terribly. Try to think of one of the beehives that might be outside in one of the trees in your yard. Try to figure a way to remove it without getting stung. If they stop and ask your opinion on something, just simply say you agree. They'll throw a syntax at me, I don't bother to catch it; or not really. I pretend to though. It's just easier. They want so badly to convert every living mortal soul. There is no consideration. Not a damn. They lay on their shit and make explanations. Guilt-setters. Fire-setters.


        Killing the symbolic cat was wrong. I know it was. I won't admit to it. The miserable wretched thing. I'm glad it's gone. The pacifier -- spoon sugar. I wouldn't tell her. Goddamn, I won't tell her everything. I watch myself, to avoid confessions I'll later regret, and anyway she acts put-out, she hates to hear it. The cockroaches in my bed are left there overnight. I keep it a secret. Spoon sugar hates ugly stories. So I won't tell her about the cat or what I did with it while it was alive. She should be sucked up in a vacuous tube where all the other hypocritical mances go. She devastates everything I set out to do. She puts me in a bad mood.


        The secrets are horrible daydreams. Crackers spread with purple jelly, her prayers stop at the top of the trees. And the crackers get crushed into dust. I left her clothes and picked at her belly button. A tranquilizing steam goes through her nostrils. I find out what she tastes like, what she looks like. Am I normal does she look the same. Patch her up, hold her against the light bulb to see if her blood in red and hold her in my arms to push out the wonderment. Just once. I rape her. She doesn't know it, how could she. A bruise here or there -- she fell down. I have listless energy ready to be leashed or let out to the grassy fields. I just with she could respond. I'll have her respond.


        Take a trinket and parcheesi board, that is her style, not mine. Spoon sugar would be shocked. I heave it. A middle, middle of the road person, she doesn't know why I have complexities. She doesn't think anyone should.


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