know why.

 

        Ah, but if I were a man...

 

        No. Squirming, fishing around; a dick with no where to go. That would be worse, I guess.

 

        Seasonal passes to the games, eat a hot dog, or engulf one. Lassitudes too common.

 

 

Southtown memoirs written on the bricks -- I never had a past in them. Friars, I am a friar. I slip at nothing, play it well, convincingly, a mold I do not like; it was inevitable. Scrapers hounded pigments over the rifle men and jobless peers got rich with bank deals and real estate. Renaissance issued only in the forms of aching heads, no toiletries were beyond the reach, a helper, ending out the days, they knew why. There wan't ways invented yet to top the problem. Not enough hot guts to blow the rifle.

 

        Lamp fixtures burned half the night, sleepy eyes, like my own, wanted sleep. Wanted out. To do away with the rotating pissing back and forth. A drum set in the final corner, players were playing the final shots, sounding off the time to begin pissing. If it weren't what was there, it would surely be missed, we got accustomed to it. The goddamned pissing. A half-century old tradition. Clansmen secrets. Clan-time feuds. The crying -- the commanding -- the tearing rips that kept getting bigger. Shortstops faces knew nothing of the reasons.

 

        Lodge fires burned.

 

        Traveling messiahs rebuffed situations in kind order to the severity, and condoning the reminiscence was not done by anyone. But nonetheless, done. My crap scenes couldn't be deleted like a film. Patronage went on because it was the way to go, a general necessity to