My cigarette mingled with a million others. It was a protest for cigarettes: here we are, now deal with us. A million people danced with their cigarettes without their angry girlfriends. When I said goodbye they turned away and shrugged. I could have wept like a wife in the midst of a divorce. Suicide is always "back in style". I drew a picture of my face last night. I made seven mistakes. My nose was too straight. My eyes were too symmetrical. My mouth was too beautiful. My hair was too perfect. My forehead was too clear. And my ears. I forgot my ears. It didn't look like me. It was better. A me he could fall in love with. I hung it on my mirror and stared at it. I removed the mirror and threw it onto the roof.
I don't believe in the value of art.I wrote a poem last night. It didn't rhyme. It doesn't mean anything. It was mostly a list of things I don't understand. Why people believe the world will end in rapture or in nuclear fallout when epidemic is the obvious answer. Why scientists and doctors always dress in white. Shit like that. I printed it out and fed it to my turtle. All art should have a use. It was an art of a different kind. It was the art of standing in one place long enough to fantasize about the sky speaking to you. It doesn't happen often. No one has the patience. Mine was a fucking masterpiece. Brilliant.