We're smoking way too many cigarettes. Last night we didn't eat any chocolate. We're naked as we write this. Despite the rumors, we have no intention of picking up the zither.
This cup of coffee we made ourselves (instant) is awful, awful! We dreamed we were on a commuter train full of spiders and the sky outside the train window resembled a flatulent monocle. The artwork of monsters is surprisingly sensitive.
It's been too long since we've had sex. We have condoms on hand, just in case the impossible occurs. It's like keeping a harpoon in case a whale sticks his head through the window. There's a bar down the street called The Raven Grill, it looks like just our kind of place. Small, dark, and filled with people who take their alcoholism seriously.
We love our neighborhood, it's full of frantic Hispanics cutting in and out of down on their luck laundromats, giggling children pulling faces in tow. Chicken joints galore, and a restaurant that serves remarkable papusas. A man in a red fishnet jersey with a face like a cement saw sits on the stoop outside the 7-11, angling for handouts. Two little Asian beauties work at the store downstairs, they always laugh at the things we say.
This isn't a blog post, it's a war against silence conducted by other means. Let the inner circle of failure never call it a return. Too many dark damsels, red lighter to Marlboro Silver. Benadryl. Hi Ho! Ian MacKaye lives two blocks down Irving, no doubt our neighborhood is ruined.