The same head also thinks it is being spied upon, an invisible historical record in the making, jarringly peaceful, craving for the big bone in a small life. It imagines a scene from the commons as his mum and dad lecture him on a future while driving him to the station. It imagines the anti life of this city and compares it to that of his immediate destination.
Breathes hard. Stares into his own lap, and seldom at an unpopular perspective study of humans seated on the lower berth at a near-90deg plane of rotation, chatting insignificance, resigned to being the refuse of the history.
Oh fucks fart. There has to be a hi-hat ban effective immediately. Our train now stands outside Charbagh like a punished school kid outside his classroom. Punishment reminds me to mention this guy and gal 17, 23 who seem slant, composed, n cool. Veni vedi vici.
Holy frig, I was to mention the two fictions I completed in the past week. Two cult prose pieces. One William Golding's "Lord of the Flies", and other Chuck Palahniuk's "Choke", set probably 30 yrs apart in time, but finding a connect in the dark and a brutish affairs they bring to life. I lapped up 200+290 pgs in this week, which could be a personal best, discounting the exam cram time when 500-pagers would be downed with the morning tea. Goodnight.
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