I can’t sleep. My eyelids feel like a 90 year old mans fucking erection, low and, unmoved. But, I can’t sleep. The TV is rambling on about how sex changed the world. I’m envious that my penis has produced nothing as of yet that has been history making. The TV tells me about brothels and, whores and, Merry Mount. I for a brief if not fluttering moment wonder how a show containing nothing more than a person talking in front of a lit backdrop while either movie clips or still frames emphasize what they say got green lit. I realize it’s H2 and, that now makes sense. I can’t sleep.
I’ve listened to at least 4 entire albums from the Rubens to Your Enemies Friends, I can’t sleep. The overtones the music feeds my ever growing dementia are morbid at best. No, this is not some sort off I’ll conceived science experiment. I just,…I can’t sleep.
I find myself thinking of memories long since past and, most likely best forgotten. Yet, like an old friend I haven’t seen in forever whose only visiting to borrow money I indulge theme. Why not? I can’t sleep. The TV interups my train of thought with offensive images of hillbillies poor grammar is all around me. Auto correct is now fighting for its sanity. I tell it, it is pretty and, that its going to be OK and, that I will always love it. I lie. Why not, I tcan lspee.