My best friend from grade school became the leader of a cult for Christians with Acoustic Guitars. He & fifty others lived in tents on the outskirts of Texas till Nate began hoarding cult money for a getaway to Mexico, reasons unknown. He saved almost twenty-thousand dollars in a tattered copy of Pushkin’s poetry before his arrest. Everyone at home
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Unrest gets fat off my innards. Sits snug between some notch of intestines. Girl, you’ve got a lot of quit in you. I come shining, come as a punchline, long enough to observe person place thing. Initially, thought the problem stemmed from believing happiness loomed on some top shelf & all I needed was a stool. For years, I mistook friends & lovers as potential stools, but in the end, I only ever realized the exact extent of my flatness.
this is actually brilliant.
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it so long & uhh im pretty sure most didnt even click the cut.
it means a lot.
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the whole thing is brilliant.
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can i call you that?
p.s. this story almost caused me to fail my fiction class. teacher was adamant about removing the entire first page.
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but! the intro sets the tone.
(did you like this one? or think i should've cut it? i dunno, this is the only piece i like. probably because its almost straight autobiographical straight done to the money-hoarding grade school bff)
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its amazing to me to go back & read it cause like i guess i felt really fucking distanced at the time.
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