chicken wing delusions
The web is pulling tighter. The Invisibles are fucking with my head. I love it. There are events and we are all filing down to the vanishing point. My room smells of burnt popcorn and what I'm thinking must be anal sex. Everything is dangerous. Friday night I sat alone in my room with a bottle of Captain Morgan and loud music. It was the best weekend night in a long time. Saturday was dangerous. The ramifications are not yet known. I'm feeding off residual super bowl energy. They force it into the walls with their yells of triumph and anguish and I can absorb it. Psychic Osmosis. Hah. I can't stay here. I can't stop smoking. Twenty-Six becomes Twenty-Seven and it is still too far away. I am in desperate need of another place.