where is my fucking community?
toast and cheese get me down from the attic most days. i see the squirrels have already collected the nuts to survive winter without huddling up amongst those starved of love. Mary Jane Murray of Taylor had ten sons. i have not met one. when i read your letters a sensation comes over me like fingers between fingers, but larger. if i misplace the letters do i lose the feeling? bottles of piss and jars of spew in a corner. i take the moisture from the atmosphere. i crave bubbles on my tongue and in my head. fill me honey with your soma.