03.07.11
Ben is sleeping against the window, a booty shot light through the end of the curtain past his feet. On its back it up hard, her head thrown back on the pillow to expose his throat as if someone was buried, set the security of death. Asthma is working against his breath, but he never snores. The smell of dried beer permeates the cabinet, where approximately ninety dented cans together and their boxes overflowing with money under my fine clothes hanging. The lamp is easy with our trivia limed to dried.
I wake up.It is eleven o'clock on Tuesday and I wake up is worthless on a pile of shirts and pants that reached my level of eye reads like a garbage heap. The curtains provide us with a sense of permanence Sun, a depth that could last 24 hours and all that would change the band of light. When my uncle came to call on parents weekend, he said: "It's like a cave in there." My bed is of unsound mind and have no leaves. I use coverage to separate my bare back from the rub plastic mattress.
Source: Neon Tommy