"Is tired, is remembering to remember to write, is trying to find optimism in the dark whole of a country stymied by the undeniable circumference of the moon in relations to the width of matter inside my head."
"Is the constant reanimation of life assured? The good hope that something is possible outside of decline. off the precipice, into the white, one can find hope that we will endure this trial. the slowly creeping death of it. but also I believe the holy imperial trinity has it in for us. is giving us the rub, so to speak."
"The mention of dulled voiced antiques brings out the worst in real whiskey drinkers. we are not them. the hushed tones of voices transmuting through talk back systems the warnings of the sirens in regards to the followers of rhetoric whose chanting is a bold letter of influence from no uncertain powers."
"Am I the prodigal son, or the son of Sam?" Said the first Tweeker.
"Is this our stop?" asked the other one stretched out on the forward facing seat next to the doors. His glazed eyes stared down ward, his face bulging bright red--in all honesty he looked like he was dying. He never got his answer.
"Neither." his friend replied. "Maybe I should move to Kentucky... I even like blue grass, I like all that hillbilly shit man." he continued talking while his friend faded quickly into a series of groans and personal hells, the other remained oblivious to his companions condition. "God loves all his children." He said sweetly just before I got off at 24th street.
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