fart. definite smell of fart. my beer drunk, pill ate, despair ridden friends all ambulate by. grass-hoppers beat with an AC unit to the right of my porch. My drunk friend Matt Hearn is in a pillatosis next to me. A pizza from Hungry Howies is in route to the space. Why are they my friends>>? Who would be my friends? Who doesn't self-medicate now-a-days? They have to exist, survivors of lord Utility. Lepidopterously I flee for any sign of light. I Need light, love. If only I could care to notice that my dreams are not actuality, that all i hoped for with her (candace) and her, and her, and her. Release me from mortal whims and worries, Dear Minerva. My meaning has to have a Life. To be true, to never be conquered by my artificial idiosyncrasies. I should send her a letter. To no longer be frightened by vocabulary, and an abyss to express!