FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF A FAILED NARCISSIST
I
Digit
Replaceable with the letter "Y".
Riddle me this: Yes. Riddle me that. There will be nothing for supper Sherlock. Hold your tears, await the terminal entry: somebody wants to hear you speak. Without the help of the machine, I am - like the FLARFS - quite useless. Misunderstood breakfasts; they were like the last pieces of cake at a wake.
Cannonballs; how to make them from paper? Turn wherever you are into a galleon, I mean, who cares about sailor lingo anyway?
Little boys, tattooed beyond recognition. Anchors and swallows, regretfully ornamented cuff links, lifting and dragging any reasonable incentive into the the dire mystery of a lofty ocean.
All we ever wanted was a productive discourse.
Never asked for much: literature that stood tall and died. Free space for original thought; ceaselessly pick-axing it's way through the walls of commonplacency.
TUG.
Teargas trunks, waiting to go off.
WE HAD HOPES
NOW WE HAVE [INSERT COMMODITY]
Ps. Dear semi-colon; I got your back.
B.A.
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