Hey, that’s cool that I can’t applaud my own story. I don’t need to self-gratify. I’m just working to reconnect, or even better to connect on a more personal, authentic level. Writing from the white room, without a care in the world. Not worrying what new pop is going to say about this latest chapter. Just another dotted line segment, signing my name. Trying to verify that I’m still here, the more vaporous parts of myself. Coffee in the morning and french toast for myself. I never make that. But my old friend and I used to. He didn’t wish me happy birthday this year. Probably because I took so long to respond to his last year’s wishes — having never done it.
It’s at thirty three where the birthday cakes and candles fade into the brush. The trap of progress is able to drop the facade. It’s time to feast. Steel teeth busting fingers off and smashing people into pancakes. I’ve got French Toast on the stove. My wife is impatient because she’s going to a baby shower for my sister today. She’s got to finish the fondant for one of the things that she’s bringing. There’s only one workable burner. All of the other ones smoke badly because of spills.
I’m pinged by the old buddy. Devils can hear you whisper — like the Lord can, my god… Allen has disappeared. Wiped from social media by the hospital that RyBry survived. Where then are my friends, and who has been mixed? I’m digging for my parents in the shop, and my baby is asleep in the crib. It’s time to shut the television off, and sit in the shower. I don’t want complete detachment from the agency. I don’t want to be fired from my destiny.
