I have the flu and I feel sick and I will work the human experiments today.
Eight, Eight, thirty. A, A, m.
Now I am a worker and I swallow things. I want to be interested in this but I’m not.
I’ve got no need to work, little desire to go home, ahem, ahaw.
You know those two crocodiles that lay their noses next to eachother? They don’t talk or know anything about eachother and there are no signs that they want to show us anything.
I feel sick and I have the flu. My bones feel like they are rotating, especially inside my legs.
One thing is to throw up my little feelings. Throw up my head of hair, my face into that storm last night, my hands are through the air like fish.
I’m so alone and that’s the way it is to me.
The way it is for most people I observe. They go outside and there’s little fighting about it. They are on the porch reading a book, interrupted with the other who has a dog on a leash and suggests walking. They walk and no, there is hope.
We are not alone, since we are walking, and we have a dog together. And we’re around eachother. We have a dog. We walk around at night and touch eachother’s hands. I am scared and then you tease me. You are sweating so I swipe your hair with my fingers and show you. Not alone, even though we walk so uncarefully and look at different things and change the subject constantly.