White paper. That's what he needed, the nice kind, the type that lets the recipient know there's good news inside. Poundage. Poundage? What the fuck is poundage? Who decided to measure paper in pounds? What exactly is that measuring; sure, quality, but quality of what? Thickness gloss wood used weight? Isn't fucking paper paper? No, only the best. Was there some in the desk? Stationary, maybe, solitary and alone, waiting expectantly for the day it fulfills its use--waiting without sentience? Wake up, wise up. This is the problem, giving emotion to paper. If paper is alone what are we?
Livingroom's clean bedroom's clean bathroom's clean. Bills paid. Stupid, but right is right. Always heard that. Right is right but who has the right? Pen glides over paper (it was there, not the best best but better than copy paper if you must know) he can't stop writing. What do you say? What do you write faced with your life? How do you record a life? Autobiography, does that explain. Biography books film notes stories letters poems comics statues paintings photos song. Those tell a story? Is life just the interesting parts? Born school marriage kids death, maybe out of order. What about the moments in between? All the time those written about spent taking shits. Washing hands. Record breath one two three four I'm lost there's too many. Not much of a historian. Can't ever know no one can ever convey this even 80 years of video can't give emotions thoughts fleeting. Lay out the towel bath time. Thin sleek not as scary as you'd think. My vorpal blade! Snicker snack.
Feel wet. Isn't this the moment of understanding? Catharsis thoughts of meaning a soft comforting voice emits from him telling the rest of us something poignant that makes us all cry and say "How meaningful" and then for thirty minutes an hour we sit and talk and find meaning in the small things and through tears we set out for a new life the first new day carpe diem from now on we'll appreciate everything. But then next day morning breath pissing in the shower time for work for school for waiting, always waiting and routine requires us to wait for the next special moment.
But he doesn't say anything. There's a few quick flinches followed by a small long grimace. Water helps the circulation like taking a bath and deciding to take a nap. Scream shout bang your hands on something til bruised and bloody look at that pumping blood that leaks from scrapes and shriek til your throat gives out GODDAMNIT I'M ALIVE and search for comfort there and don't dwell too long because there is no light travel here-- Einstein has failed and the fucking clock won't stop.