Every morning starts the same. sirens, roosters, alarm clocks, kids, morning light pouring in from the blinds, pans, neighbors- f*** it.

no such thing as sleeping in when you sleep this light. when the cries of a fly caught in the spider web pull you out of your dream.

freedom, like piss runs out in thin streams when you’re being watched. the look, as sartre once said. the look of god. the look of sirens, roosters, alarm clocks, kids, morning light, pouring in from the blinds, pans, neighbors- f*** it. i mean it’s not like i ever cared about that anyway.

and don’t let me cheapen this with foul language, or cliche repetitions- my meaning will be skewed, and oh, please, don’t let me be misunderstood.

So as I clean up the house, and by that i mean put my slutty wife’s s*** in the basement, and finish paying the bills her AIDS medications left me (because lord knows i never clean anything) I begin to wonder why I never got sick, or why the kids never got sick, and perhaps, how much nicer it would have been if we were all sick, and we all died together, got buried together, and smoked marlboro cigarettes with god together. That’s how it would have been had my wife and I met fifteen years earlier.