in a room one hundred and twenty five feet long and ten feet wide I sit hovering over planks and nails. there are thirty servere windows that stare at me. now I know you may be thinking paranoia, right, well, I am thinking more tragedy in the making; I could have spent the extra money on linoleum, whitewashed the walls, painted everything with fleur-de-lis design of joan of arcs glory days, but I decided to leave everything in a low grade liverish brown, a reminder of my body being dragged up a flight of steps and pushed out the kitchen door, having been beat with the broken arm of an arm chair, which as they were beating me mostly on my arms, I though rather ironic. I was still able to stoke my gas furnace with a bit of humor, but in truth I can not remember if this took place or not; like most things in my life the past has a protestant priority, the present, scabs with a third round to go, and the future a communal carper. most of the time I can not even remember all the numbers that make me who I am. last night I even sold six of the numbers that I had just so I could watch a half an hour of a detective something on television. I keep hearing -get up you asshole or we are going to...- I did not move since I thought it was the television and not some hate mongering legalese waiting to whitewash my fence. well, that’s what I get for ignoring the atmosphere and only paying attention to what is in reach of my senses. that is how I ended up in a room one hundred and twenty five feet long and ten feet wide, I thought I would teach bullfighting to the cool nuance, and after a kill or two it was suggested via wounds and a chaotic chess board across my head that I should keep the cat burning and learn to confine the dead to old love songs or at least the fat and hungry.
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