Patterns in production are apparent after a hundred times. A never-ending thing continues, like it is supposed to. Crocodiles eight feet long attack women. Comparative values show that it would be a better value to forget those circumstances. Sitting out in the ball park watching a goddamned game, national sports, boring me to death. If it weren’t for the tight outfits I really would have done it. Little boys playing the game, the adult male standing to watch like a proud Dad. I cheer when the others do. I scream when the others do. I raise my fists in victory when the others do. When they go home, I want to maim someone; parched are the decks where we sit. Sharks in the infested waters, dead fish were laying at the shore.

 

       Nothing there. No sharks in a lake. Some ducks. Cute ducks, through their beaks come a quack or two. I should like to take one home. Learn a foreign language over headphones from a guy who fiddles with his mustache all the time. He thinks he’s back on an old school playground, on the ferris wheels. My duckies quack, he wakens. Conjugating verbs, I think the animals are catching on.

 

        Bon ger. Chalk erases and on comes more crap to fill my head.

 

        The guitar swells and the player plays more love songs. On a scale he only knows C, D, and E minor. Amazing how few notes are needed to play a song. I opened the metal fuse box, coyly played with a few of the switches, then turned one off. The room went dark. In the name of conserving energy. Building my own up, lacking immensely. I got on a skateboard. Fell down. Too old anyway. Much.

 

        Much.

 

        Seeing the look on that cricket’s face just as I was going to swat it with my shoe was exhilarating. I think it knew what I was going to do. Proves the theory that Death knows no strangers. I won’t kill beetles, though. Somebody told me they were cute. I took her word for it.