"jesus," he stammered. "have a little fucking patience, will you?"
she said, i've yet to find anything beyond this perpetual present tense. no ups, downs or twists. i go to great lengths to fuck things up, just for a change of pace. but all i get is routine. a comfortable little rut. in a world that's capable of such wonderful and insane debauchery, why can't i seem to get anywhere but home? home and homoeostasis. rigid regularity. a mediocre mass of empty pockets and unsaturated, fresher than new pants.