Sufferers watched in vain. I ate the mushroom soup on the floor because I was hungry, there was nothing else offered. I took what I could get without asking for more. Pen marks covered his arm. A child scribbled words on the face's arm.
It wouldn't wash away using the cleansers available and sudsing cloths smeared it. A poison was entering his pores, a knife, a liquid. It was slow, but I could see him leaving me. I tried to recall where I first met him, such a long time ago. I couldn't remember. I knew, though, what would be the last. I wanted to not think about it.
Something missing. A long ago hurt. Making me feel that old stomach emptiness. Lower. Ceiling calls, a plank in my eye, for certain a dumb saying is running through my head to tame a situation embarrassing hell out of a catcher in the wind. Blushing and relishing a thought.
A thought never more. Seen lit in gold pastels, colors return only for a minute, long enough to realize what they are, or were at one time, hardened to never cherish it again. Things like that can't last, so why try to coax them to do things that aren't possible. Horrible loud-pox filling my head. They tell me the time I'd rather not know. A holding pattern. Solid wheezing for the difficulties get higher. Spin. Spin. Does it worry not to return. Pay to begin again, but no deals can be made. My stomach wants to return celery to my mouth. Take care. Never shaking a loose piece for fear of it coming apart, breaking, to a bad odor, it may not feel good, to be good to touch in its formal condition, we'd rather not touch, give some one last message, things do end, but I hoped not to be like this. Do I frown at ugly sights or shrug. I lost the grasp again, it isn't any clearer. I'd kill for you. Shrug off. Help me when you're there, give me a piece, don't make me take it like a robber who doesn't belong. I don't like to feel like that. Turnips growing in the ground need picking, pulling out of the soil, I lose sight. See the blurry. It's better to me. Nicer to hold when I really don't feel like holding anything. Keeping inheel on a fact. My breath is coming back, I feel more conscious of it. A whistle in my nose, I sniff it in. It's word, a carved spaniel on the window pane, gives one nothing to remember. I look to things magnified. You can breathe while I kiss you goodbye.
RIVER BED 56
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