my tiny red remnants
i broke from the fury of an overpopulated campus and found my way to a bookstore not far away. of course the 21st century boy doesn't seek out the kind with tall shelves giving secrecy or old books filling the air with thick musk, no, my compass directs me to the mcdonald's of bookstores, with tiny tables of books with signs like "perfect for your coffee table." I made my way to the furthest corner and amassed a collection of books to waste my time with. as i flipped through the plots and conceits i unknowingly left tiny splotches of blood on each page from a deep cut in my thumb. i soon became aware that the tiny red dots on each page where from me and not left from a previous financially-ill-equipped student like myself. _finally_ i was leaving some mark in the literary field. for once i left an impression on the books i read instead of the reverse. and then i thought about the years and sweat and toil the author's poured into these books, the intricate devices they slowly and meticulously built in order to evoke passion or sadness, and how my spilling of blood across their pages was such a blatant ball of phlegm across their faces. I began dragging my thumb across the edges of the paper opening the cut wider and wider and smearing myself across all of their pages, across flowery poetry and bathroom mysteries, across classics, and across the nihlist contemporaries i hold so dear. i smeared my pain over all of their work, i heard the deafening roar of the pain in my ears as i drug the cut across the pages over and over again, the slicing sounds amplified through my veins. i grew faint, but not from the blood or pain, but from creation, i bet god orgasmed as he built the world. i left my seed all over the books i had plucked from their shelves, and then closed them up and laid them back again. never to be the same again, them nor i.