There are the moments when nothing, not even the taut comparisons between my happy companion's thighs, can relieve me of my slumber. These moments of total non-waking extend for months and in them I will be seen, erroneously, to be skidding down a path of self-abnegation, tack-repudiation, vanity-slaughtering. In fact it is more like repo-man dash that takes over and for these months I caramba mighty through slapdash alleys, crazy-kote dumpster divides, expanses of touchy-feely clandestinity. In there is also a mounting concern for the environment. That environment is as green as my watchband. I love it.
My companion urges me on, at moments like those. He believes I am fomenting drive, classifying the unmitigated. It is all top intelligence to him. He thinks I am dunking home-views in pure moneyed clutter in order to get them a little nicked up.
I am not. It is slumber, the flange on purview that keeps the mystery well within nurturance range, that does not mess with home or beyond. It hopes to clasp itself, lurch voraciously into a creep towards mustard, towards a certain cutting the mustard. It never succeeds, but it slumbers on because always it is hoping to do two things at once and one of those things is already there. One of them is voracious, the other is not. There is something else too.
Eventually the sounds of testy groundbreaking tickle me out of my dump and I pound the asphalt, harder and harder, a sackcloth bonanza, a total skid, and the moments go fluttering out the library window till I, I, I can't remember the names of my lumbago pals and I cry so loud and honkingly that the librarian excuses herself from some pals to come at me with a dirty popsicle, which shrinks me into a thesaurus of kinship relationships, and everything is okay then at times, and slowly I become happier and happier.
No. Just kidding.