God Curse Your Sober Mortal Souls
I don't think any of you out there could even guess what it's like to be followed. You could not even fathom, in in you wildest dreams what it means to not go to the places you love because you know someone is gonna see it and tell someone else. Fuck!
I am writing from a random truck stop in some greasy hellhole, to tell you I'm fucking miserable. I had no Thanksgiving to speak of, and Christmas is actually going to endanger me... cuz I"ll be the only guy without anywhere to go!
Look:
I am in a very serious need to find my brother. Not only does he mean my life to me, but I need him. Damn! My head is swirled. I've wanted to write here; so much to say. (haha- it said 'her' originally) A lot has happened recently. Thank god for the midwest. there is nothing out here; anonymity is perfunctory. No one cares who you are.
It's not like that where I'm from. Everyone knows everything about you, your mother, your sisters, your fucking aunts and uncles. It's sick. There are people everywhere; crawling out of every open sewer. God it's enough to choke you. All the same too, all of them. Swarthy; downtrodden; ancient.
Out here (her again) nothing uncommon happens. The scenery expands at its bland pace covering the rich loam with seedy indignation and ripe hypocracy. It's utterly fantastic. You never know where you are, or who is going to find you.
I just got paid for a pretty large delivery. I don't know what it was, but I can be sure it wasn't bodies or animals. The vehicle was too compact to have much more than pharmaceticals buried in the lining. I have a new ride (shitty, of course) and a few thousand dollars in my pocket to keep me fed for a while, but honestly, I"m starting to get worried.
Unfortunately, I can't blame my own moral decrepitude on my brother. Though I suspect him of some dark, apocryphal stuff, I am completely prepared to accept the unending shit-tide of horrible luck and self-obliteration that my own bad decisions have started. Pretty much I have burned all my bridges, and all the wood to make future bridges, and every piece of driftwood and flotsam that could ever even remotely be construed as of bridge making proportion and burned it right up. No one comes and talks to me; I am left alone. I am the last man standing on a deserted island full of large, mishappen stone heads.
Luckily it's not too bad out here. I believe I have enough blankets to stay in the car tonight. I can't go on anyway.
I am writing from a random truck stop in some greasy hellhole, to tell you I'm fucking miserable. I had no Thanksgiving to speak of, and Christmas is actually going to endanger me... cuz I"ll be the only guy without anywhere to go!
Look:
I am in a very serious need to find my brother. Not only does he mean my life to me, but I need him. Damn! My head is swirled. I've wanted to write here; so much to say. (haha- it said 'her' originally) A lot has happened recently. Thank god for the midwest. there is nothing out here; anonymity is perfunctory. No one cares who you are.
It's not like that where I'm from. Everyone knows everything about you, your mother, your sisters, your fucking aunts and uncles. It's sick. There are people everywhere; crawling out of every open sewer. God it's enough to choke you. All the same too, all of them. Swarthy; downtrodden; ancient.
Out here (her again) nothing uncommon happens. The scenery expands at its bland pace covering the rich loam with seedy indignation and ripe hypocracy. It's utterly fantastic. You never know where you are, or who is going to find you.
I just got paid for a pretty large delivery. I don't know what it was, but I can be sure it wasn't bodies or animals. The vehicle was too compact to have much more than pharmaceticals buried in the lining. I have a new ride (shitty, of course) and a few thousand dollars in my pocket to keep me fed for a while, but honestly, I"m starting to get worried.
Unfortunately, I can't blame my own moral decrepitude on my brother. Though I suspect him of some dark, apocryphal stuff, I am completely prepared to accept the unending shit-tide of horrible luck and self-obliteration that my own bad decisions have started. Pretty much I have burned all my bridges, and all the wood to make future bridges, and every piece of driftwood and flotsam that could ever even remotely be construed as of bridge making proportion and burned it right up. No one comes and talks to me; I am left alone. I am the last man standing on a deserted island full of large, mishappen stone heads.
Luckily it's not too bad out here. I believe I have enough blankets to stay in the car tonight. I can't go on anyway.
posted by the search at 8:49 PM
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