Dear Reader, I am reaching through your screen and then through your skin to kill you with words. I am your fear that high school football was the best it ever gets. I am your fat future suicide of a wife. I am your receding hairline and I am your son that gets addicted to needles and tests positive for HIV at his first rehab.



If you want to die in a wisp of smoke and look like a spirit drawn back up to heaven like a needle drawing up Fentanyl, if you want to be a dissipated cloud in your death instead of a signature scrawled on a book on a church table then do something beautiful to die and you won’t be a fucking waste.



Found my grace in the back toilet, the back one. All sorts of times we had up front but it was all waiting for you in the back but they never will tell you that. You have to go there and find it and then it’s all yours like a child or his candy or both.



Building cities in my mind, great coliseums where they extol my genius and revere my solicitude to the particular patterns of my shit. Grow like a plant and die like a death and roll like a log into the ocean down and sink and don’t float.


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