Freaking out in the Kmart lunch room. I write this unseparated from my self. With a particular audience in mind. To an audience unwitting, uncaring to read.
Seriously why am I so obsessed? If I had you I’d be able to write the most beautiful things. I’d pluck words from your actions, those actions performed in your beauty. They’d trickle over the most charred of pages. And seep into the most iron of hearts. What are you doing now?
If only you were wondering what I am doing now. Well here it is. The Kmart fecking lunch room.
The queer roly poly Indian man in the Hawaiian shirt and the pigs nose earrings. This pretty girl just walked in and the man I was about to write of, he looked at her. I won’t write of this man now. He seemed defined by her presence. The graceful asian lady and the fat westie, listening to cliff richard on her iPod, oldies have iPods now. There’s a paperback of the goblet of fire unread by her side. Oh my arch nemesis gina maccarone walked in, patro – no, matronising nonna.
So the electricity may be poring out the walls. The honeycombed lights buzzing their dull glow. The toaster could spring with joy. The taps could run with a smoky opaque cylinder of water. Fungus thriving upon the ceiling.
This lunch room is vulgar. And I’ll attribute this perception to not having you. I’d like a new job.
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