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recluse-boy. I saw another subway rider wearing a shirt today with that on the front.I wondered if he was for real or just out for the twenty-something, perky breasted groupies. A tall lanky thing, handsome in an indie-rock way, reading the new CMJ for this week. I'm guessing groupie boy. He seems to be affronting some weird angle on being alone. Dick.

walked home to the calming,solid conversation of the sidewalk and my hands tapping 3/4 beats in drop-off pattern successions. My jansport is filled with two newly purchased six packs of guinness, a book of lightwave tutorials, and five old letters from five old girlfriends I've taken to keeping on me at all times. The little girl of the couple next door sits on my stoop, waiting for the rain to lighten up. She smiles and offers up her thomas-the-stuffed-bear for me to pat on the head as I key into my apartment.

I size myself up to maybe a .085 intoxication before the lightwave tutorials and texture heirarchies will cease to make any sense to me. I don't want to vomit on my keyboard again. With various limbs of the park corner oak aggressively dying in my fireplace, I relax and enjoy the buzz. Maybe I'll resume my conversation with Neal about his writings on detachment 2702. We can always chat lively once I hit that .09 intoxication. Thoughts of the handsome boy with the weird shirt come into my mind again. Recluse boy my ass. I'll be the binary bukowski haunting that fucker in his dreams tonight.

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