At ten after one he took off his watch. But was still too sober to close his eyes. She read his penis as she would any textbook. Scanning for facts. Answers to questions not yet asked.
Some people don't sleep. They just close their eyes and lie there until their brain surrenders. Faint comas rescue the heroes of poor dime store novellas. In the hiss of quiet songs too commercial for their craft. Domesticated demons retrieve their claws from between the condoms.
No one's alive. No one's dead. Just the faint aroma of assless underwear and the toilet choking down the last of our vomit.
As the morning browses what's left of our conversation.
Monday
9/24/2007 01:16:00 AM
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