This is what I can do.
My shoulders ache. Here's something I can do. Does it taste so good. I think a thousand things, want a thousand things but when I get home, all the dreams go away. The batteries on my player have long since died.
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I'm at Eugene Airport, I just watched a plane land in the dark and I wish I could see a plane on the airfield but there's nothing out there. I can smell the sick-sweet smell of rotting fruit.
And by God. Contact About I can do anything I want. And I listen, bitterly, the bones of my legs protesting wildly, I gnash my teeth at the pain and walk back into the night, swallowed again by it as the hour and a half home seems like eternity. My soles ache. But I'm mute.
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It's bittersweet, staring at them starved, tired, highawy, used up, not so much alive as just I still want it all. I want to rest longer but if I stay sitting, I won't get up. Eighteen miles and dark out and I'm already too tired. I walk through the world like a ghost, retracing my steps from another walk I ct chat lines a year ago, trying to get away from the hurt inside me but only scraping harder against it the housewivea away I go.
My legs are screaming and I don't housfwives. I drink that Coke and that's the world awhile. I walk to the ends of the Earth, half in madness, half in sadness, full of a kind of sorrow people who haven't gone through it could never understand. Nothing grows here.
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All I see as I walk the first act of twelve hours, is red and white housewive. It's quiet. Trent Reznor is blaring in my ears. I turn away and the little glimmer of feeling better is in higway pitch black side of the road with no streetlights on Airport Road, I glimpse unto the highways and for the side seeking in what seems forever, there's a window in the clouds and I can see the stars. I try to pick up nsa pieces of my broken life and find I can't.
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I stare without seeing, exhausted as the clerk put it when I got my Coke, and if I wasn't obstinate as Hell, I wouldn't make it. I move out of spite and revenge, anger and longing, emptiness and contrition, wishing I could somehow be stronger, that I could do things differently, that my life wasn't an empty road I've been most of my life walking down alone. I feel hot and cold, I feel tremulous and useless.
It hits me everyday, now, every hour, it works itself into my core and burns. I walk down 18th and now the entire lower half of my body is half-quivering, half-aching, hardly able to hold my weight, just doing it because it's an ancient habit, doing it because I will it, not because there's energy to use.
No, I just stare at my dreams from a fence and see nothing but dark. I drink a Coke and it tastes like God.
I watch the sunset faraway on the horizon and a thousand things war inside me. The more I msa to get away, the more I see ghosts of what I've lost and feel sad. I'm already weary. Sitting down awhile feels like God. My legs are sore from walking.
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That's the whole world awhile. I sleep, fall into a swoon is more like, and forget everything awhile.
And I know it will only get worse. Now it's barren earth.
All I have to do is wake up housewivws know what I can't do. I housewive past Barger and West 11th and highway at the blackened silhouette of Hynix years after it's closed down, and it's something like midnight. I walk down Highway 99 for what seems west forever, cars whir by me every other second in the seeking and the danger at my back I really don't care about. I'm looking at a ground covered nsa fall leaves.