what the hell is the point of being a fish if you aren’t allowed to smoke? I mean, really , if there’s no there there then why bother, right?. I decamp from your tree and move to Tupelo where the news tells of a Rhinoceros escaped from the zoo terrifying the poorer residents of the town’s outskirts communities where they live in mud huts and shotgun shacks. To feel clean, even, straight, I shave my head and get a tattoo that says “There is No Magic” across my forearm. The tattoo artist has a lisp and almost misspells my ink. I want to gut him and hollow him out and live inside his body drinking cheap whisky all day. Instead I look for a job sweeping up after eyeless men in a bar downtown. It is my job to maintain the dank. It’s a decorating choice.
Someone reject me, quick before I lose hope
Artifice mentioned Oprah Read This in a good way
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