I died on Tuesday and today is Saturday. Please cross out Tuesday
through Saturday on my calendar, and do so in the same manner until
you also die.
We named the pot roast Paul since that is good name. Paul used to be
Saul (long story). We considered Paul our child as we ate it. My
wife's subsequent "food coma" lasted two months, during which time I
watered the mail.
The sandwiches at Chez Paul are expensive, and I cannot tell if the
chairs are sculptures. Royalties are not being paid. The salad
dressing reminds me of seagulls, as far as what they are capable of.
An unemployment line goes on for three blocks, at which point one will
come across a hot dog vendor. Another three blocks, a dog. Another
three million, a god.
Life is dust that got sprayed from a dark hole into a room. In this
room, there are those who have dressed nicely, those who have dressed
simply, and those who have not dressed. We call the latter apes.
My wife's "food coma" was really just disappointment. She moved to
Tuscany, to find the same yellow grass she left, sending me short
sentences disguised as the back of a postcard.
I found a post-it with fuck off written on it. The bright white light
was as thick as mayonnaise. A decapitated man shares the form of an
I worry about the mail, and the cereal, which, probably, is soggy by now.