Do what thou wilt

I got fired by Bukowski today so I started a hellfire club but confused it with a glee and ended up short singing in a doorway. Distended harmony ended. He told me to step away from the words and the pens then he folded up my typewriter and put it in his wallet. I told him I have several plastic combs but he walked away and I was immensely relieved.

All I'm doing is giving meaning to time. Constructing a trailing alphabet self so that I'm sure, so that I'm sure. Its only maps of myself, I could give them to you but I need them for my swords and orange juice.

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