Yawn. A wide mouthed, stinky, what did you eat last night?!? yawn, a gaping stream of reconstituted aromas. Cigarette in water glass half filled with diluted whiskey. Hate it when the ice melts, no punch, no buzz. Lots of porn magazines, guys on gals on guys on guys and gals and their gal pals and the achievements of the Hard Plastic Industry. Ever read Lolita? Best writing on American motels , ever.
Yeah, I always leave the door open when I turn off the lights; the grind of the ice machine and the comings and goings in the parking lot help me sleep, and something about the silverfish sheen of the headlights cruising across the groaded wall art makes me believe the center of things will hold even when my eyes are closed, a half mile into the Nod. Ah, you're not awake. Damnitall. Said my piece to a failed applause sign.
Nothing makes me sad like a sandwich still in the wrapper that hasn't been eaten, nor stored in a refrigerator. It's a dead thing that becomes even more dead as the heat makes the cheese and cold cuts gamy like soft calluses . A suffocated rat has more dignity. Marlboros are the best smokes ever, they have the right feel in the hand, the pack I mean, and the smoke itself, wretched burning nightstick enema grind, yeah, they are foul, all the time, like sneering geese on a leash, jack.
