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Tuesday, April 13, 2010

F.John 15:19

Strangers push open doors to familiar rooms; my house. The same nose on a new person: less chilling than duplicate pitches screaming some spaghetti sauce nonsense; you'll eat something eventually - bitch - I said to myself.  

After the blood-bonds leave to see a movie I'll scavenge their spaghetti sauce; funds depleted as usual, eat a can of beans maybe. Fortunately one can always budget for cigarettes on lonely occasions such as this.

We never argued about food because you always just ate whatever; whatever a meat a starch a canned vegetable a glass of milk. To my horror I uncovered a graffitied philosophy textbook; you had plastered my world with baseball doodles.

We aren't close anymore like when I was a believer; rifted by exaggerated traits of sluthood, careless drug storage, time. You won't read my writing - or anything - you won't read my writing and therefore we won't. We won't ever.

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