sunday

nothing ever to do. nothing ever to see. my only responsibility: unravelling a cord on the couch and dreaming of how to piece it back together. listening, with impatience, to sigur ros at their most tedious. i prayed earlier for the snow to bury the house, and we would stay inside all day, dreaming of what we could do if there were no snow. my prayer went unanswered, and now i'm left watching two birds fucking on the lawn over barely a skiff of snow. at least, i think they're fucking. and they're small birds, so i feel as limp-dicked as ever, wasted, wan, the poor boy, buried under all that denim and cotton, waiting to get out. this is not chauvinism or misogyny. i'm just bored and vaguely horny. i'm not even posting this for attention. no one knows about this blog. this is where we're at, in 2007: a sad and lonely young adult, sitting the afternoon away at a laptop, wondering if anything he writes will ever link to anything anyone ever searches. probably not. you masturbate if you do, you masturbate if you don't. all day long. nothing. static. or worse, bukowski, delillo, vonnegut, hell - poe. late hemingway - kicking the can in idaho before he kicked the bucket. THAT'S IT. walking alone, conscious of a photographer somewhere, kicking a can in the air, and waiting to kill yourself. that's sunday for you.