I could hear my breath. My bref so harsh.
It was in a survival shelter in the Hamptons where my musing of the future came back to me as but a dream, or like a dream. So much meaningless fluff.
The future had been washed away by fire.
So many gone. So many empty bodies left behind.
In the survival shelter I can scream and sing and do a little routine, just to keep normal, to keep sane. But I digress away from the two knuckles.
I like to get into something. Sometimes. Good for a lark, and a bane of boredom.
My bref come so hard. My heart is slamming into the sides of my meat like thunder!
Freeze-dried soups, a powder with sodium added for flavor. Turns out sodium is an essential nutrient, and you can, if you have a maladjusted diet, find yourself wanting.
The empty static of the FM radio is like a white-noise generator, helping me sleep. The station stayed on autoplay a long time before the transmitter went down. I was impressed as I sat there idly appreciating the playlist the station built.
So I have started The Last Dump On Earth. I muse about this as I take The Next Piss On The Earth. I muse how everything has become so superlative, official, important. I regret that.