Serial clicker out on the loose, trying to unthink the thoughts, to unsink the
ship, to unwhatever the rest, escaping the automatic Microsoft self-corrector,
driving carlessly carelessly on roads with bridges July-mmvii-bombed, tak-
ing side roads and following newly placed road signs to get to coastal towns,
road signs are never a good sign, putting temporary ones means they are not
temporary, suffering from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder six months too
late, PTSD – pity the soul despaired, walking on self-curfewed streets, trying
to find an empty spot for one in crowded pubs, “reservation for how many
people?”, one people, one drink, one plate, one sous-plat, table for one in
short, vagina for one in skirt, girls in flammable skirts, in neon-colored tops,
smilingseducingactingbored all at once, dancing queens having parked their
platform shoes, dancing barefoot on tables, celebrating the life, cherishing
the undeath, partying as if there was no tomorrow, in a place where tomorrow
there might not be, with unsellable manuscripts unedited and unabridged in
bottom folders never to be opened again.