of pleasure and disarmament / when she stands tall / without garments / on skin, so clean and crystalline / and awefully warm and / prepares for the ultimate scorn

Is it possible for there to be a duplicate of a nonexistent object?

My real name is Tracy. I was born in San Francisco, but now live in Millbrae. I am fourteen years old and obviously too intelligent for my own good.

i’m a legend you can’t contend with / bend with (like beckham) / as i send you out / with my love and my memories / tragedies and apologies / that we circumscribe like sophocles

It was early, and the sun was still rumbling underneath the sheets. The man was shivering in the cold, the wind erasing the rough edges of his scaly skin. Sixty-seven years old and part-time relative to a muttish hellfiend from Harlem, his body shook left and then right in his wastebasket bed. Papers ruffled.

Do not mix your HMOs with love. Love doesn’t want to deal with IRAs. Love wants love. It warrants warmth and instant satisfaction. Love is longing. And love is not perfect.

The concepts of having nine-to-five jobs, of retirement plans and HMOs, they’re all so against the simple, honest and genuine concept of living. How does one survive by being a two-dimensional cut-up of one’s former self?

She went silent. Her eyes glistened, and I felt like the one-liner in a cheap twenty cent romance novel. This isn’t how I dreamed it would be. This isn’t how I imagined my life.