When He Died He Would

Say Heat. Say Wet Between My Legs. Say Legs. Seriously, I Want You To. Stockings. Whisper It. The Word Is Meant To Be Whispered.

You Feel Sorry For Yourself. You Think You're Missing Something And You Don't Know What It Is. You're Lonely Inside Your Life. You Have A Job And A Family And A Fully Executed Will, Already, At Your Age, Because The Whole Point Is To Die Prepared, Die Legal, With All The Papers Signed. Die Liquid, So They Can Convert To Cash.

That's What In Theory Differentiates A Writer From Everyone Else. You See And Hear More Clearly.

In The Face Of Technology, Everything Becomes A Little Atavistic.

He Wanted Paper And Something To Write With, Some Way To Sustain A Thought, To Place It In The World.