The epidemy of epitome.

Subject:	.
Time:	8:24 am.
Music:	The Baptist Generals - 500 league reunion march.

Who could imagine the last day? Oh sir, can you tell me what’s the last day?
Oh sir, please give me an answer.
The end is coming, and the devil is laughing loud.
Loud, like a chuckle, so maniacal to know, he’d have half of us before we could make it to church.
Do you pay penance?
Do you do drugs?
Have you smoked?

Loud, like a train, a train coming through the window.

I must flow. I must write so I can get something out of my brain. It has been so stiff lately. I have lacked ideas about something remotely cool. It has been jealous, of parties because it can not be there.
But I must write now, to get some idea.
I went to this place the other night, I hung out for awhile but I could only imagine a snake, met with stripes, on its side.
There was a peak hour angel telling me I was a hero of the state.
But peak hours were so high, and peak hours were so healthy.
I like to the eyes closed because it keeps me from seeing tears streaming out left and right. Streaming left and right into ozone, evaporated.
I probably made a mistake with that chemical formula and I probably didn’t predict the right thing.
But who is to say I care the much.
I couldn’t see the angel at the party during peek hour night time.
Because it was dark in the room.
It was so dark I couldn’t see the angel dressed in white glowing.
But the devil was laughing so hard. It was so familiar. I do not wish to see anymore. There was a dog eating flakes of skin off of a poor dead man’s back.
It told a girl about something sweet, that was landing in her pocket thirty minutes from then.
She emerged only twenty and said that it had come so soon.
It was intense, for he had predicted thirty and was wrong.
The pocket pleasure came to early only to surprise the dog, now consuming plastic forks covered in yellow.
But the girl, she said thank you, hugged the dog and ran off.
There was a pleasure in the way I taught the girl how to speak about life and talk to the dog.
Love, she should do that sometime in the future.
I will love her as a child now, but never love her as my lover. I will excuse myself from any table where conversation about love-making is mentioned. She is my mother. She is my sister and my child. The dog was her brother, caste out by a system that wouldn’t allow him expression of artistic lifestyle. He couldn’t get out of the way, and he kept having a dream about the life he thought he could have had. And I was his father, his brother, and his son. There was something trivial about the boy and the way we looked at each other. He thought he could be so confident in ways of expression but, he knew like I knew, I was the god of monotheism. To claim myself a god, the angel I saw at the party, will certainly send me straight to hell. The devil was laughing like a king, now in charge of me, his brother, his son, his father.

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