So it’s June 23, 1994.
In limbo.
81 cents is all.
Prospects for more nil. 
Interlaced fingers 
cushioning the skull,
eyes blank blobs,
the ceiling a screen.
One wish,
one hope.
No smokes.
Contemplate the geckos, 
their habits
and two-toned turds. 
Watch them screw. 
That’s the life.
Imagine what it’s like. 
So who cares?

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