The flat
Ok I'm trying to get into the groove now. Working and not breaking. Working breaking. Masturbating. Neither working nor breaking, which is all else. That is it, then. Is it? No. Stop. At night, as usual, I did not sleep but went reading and scribbling. And in the morning, they came and took the pages, or I delivered them, either way I didn't move, with little interruption, inside. And out of doors, of course, was different, as it has a tendency to be. There it could've snowed or the sun could've blistered or the moon could've sat, fat and happy, anxious for its antipode to crack so it could shrivel cold and dark and drop like the sex of a corpse or the stub of umbilical. Only time will tell. Yes, I sat without interruption and delivered my pages, or had them taken, until they called, back from the gym, to give me my bicycle, which is only mine in name, and which I don't ride, but only lend, for going to the gym. And I don't question, even though they are lying about the gym. But it makes no difference, it makes no difference. Somehow there is a hole in the back tire. Or the back tire is gone completely. Or the bicycle is gone completely, except, of course, for the back tire, which has gone slack, perhaps in mourning.