The Joy of Solipsism

Bring the oncoming train into focus. Tell me your theory of the market. Pupils dilate, trees fall, I practice transference in my downtime. Think of my mother watering plants. Is everybody really watching? Blog me. Add to my Wiki entry. Date me. Reply to my electronic flirt. My mother told me she’d nominate me for that award, if she could bear the proxy. Show me your tits. I shaved my balls. I took out a second mortgage. Motherhood frightens the elms, carves its sorry initials into the sky’s prolapsed anus. Each sadness passes through me like a gallstone. My valve leaks an amniotic canopy over the bar I’m fragging. I’m a fragment, a tender button. I saw my first beetle in the periphery. Lake Shore Drive against the ruins, the stain of lake-effect snow a special effect, the only weather exhibiting any real affect.