9.19.17

when the writing is finished

my chest cracks in half

like an egg.

i think

what now?

i’m going to find

something to hit

or drink

∨

or i’m going to bury my head beneath ground like an ostrich and wait out the oncoming plague in the safety of oblivion. fifty people just died in mexico because of the movement of the earth’s guts. we are in one word fucked. if you’re still around when i resurface we shall reconvence at that later date when the writing will have unfinished itself miraculously.

Written at 9:55 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.