Claude Cahun

for future fussing, join them, pacing helps but ruins the wax on the hardwood floors

from cover to cover somethings remain under

i spent 2.67 on gas today
baby prayers , stoned alone
ive got the chilly willys
what kind of something would you want?
i just had no room
drink a lil bit and sing about whatever

there was no tangible evidence which only increased his desire to remain faithful

emma marie rose krademan lived kitty corner to aunt kathy summers '93-'96 she stole her mom's wine coolers and brought them to the playground she had stringy blonde hair and her ears poked out the sides her shorts were too big and when she went upside down on the monkey bars that's how we found out she didn't wear underwear she is what my cousin called a secret friend she would make her younger brother chew on rocks, lick the garbage cans, and say things he didn't want to he peed on ryan drew's brand new bike and ryan beat the living shit out of him tommy didn't scream like i would have he just cried and i never really wanted to go to the park anymore after that

Hour of the Star

But let us return to today. As is known, today is today. No one understands my meaning and I can obscurely hear mocking laughter with that rapid, edgy cackling of old men. I also hear measured footsteps in the road. I tremble with fear. I must reproduce myself with the delicacy of a white butterfly. This idea of the white butterfly stems from the feeling that, should the girl marry, she will marry looking as slender and ethereal as any virgin dressed in white. Perhaps she will not marry? To be frank, I am holding her destiny in my hands and yet I am powerless to invent with any freedom: I follow a secret, fatal line. I am forced to seek a truth that transcends me. In order to become greater than I am, for I am so little. I write because I have nothing better to do in this world: I am superfluous and last in the world of men. I write because I am desperate and weary. I can no longer bear the routine of my existence and were it not for the constant novelty of writing, I should die symbolically each day. Yet I am prepared to leave quietly by the back door. I have experienced almost everything, even passion and despair. Now I only wish to possess what might have been but never was.