the absurd thoughts that keep hope alive and buried.
He can count the scars on his arm, but he stops once he reaches a number that doesnt exist somewhere between eight-hundred and nineteen trillion umpteen billion of a fraction multiplied by the squared root of fucking misery. Hes all alone this time, no calculator helping him, no bedpost to scratch these memories into, and no hourglass to measure the centuries.
Hes been crying for years.
While the roommate bawled in the other room, for reasons unknown to Narrator, maybe for the fact that he had to punt poor boy's head like a football to dislodge the vomit out of his throat to save his life, or maybe his balls still hurtNarrator doesn't knowbut while the roommate wept, Narrator grabbed some enormous black trash bags and started stuffing the years into them. It took him hours, even without taking a second glance at anything to make sure it was indeed trash. He didnt care. Everything must go. If it was on the floor amid the rubble, it was branded shit, and therefore it was going away. And once he had filled eleven bags, and his floor was immaculate, Narrator began to crawl around on his hands and knees picking those tiny bits of invisible fuzz and mosquito wings out of the carpet that only his mind could see and they bothered the hell out of him and he could feel a panic attack looming if he didnt get the fuck out of there and take a walk where he knew the wings would be everywhere and he would just have to accept that he couldnt clean the entire world.
The air was just as cold as he remembered it being last December.
He loved December like he loved taking walks in Houston at four in the morning with vomit stains on his shirt and thinking of helium with his roommate still crying on the bed.
Maybe he needed direction that wouldnt ever come if he didnt get help. Maybe he didnt want it.
The vomit stain on his shirt was turning into a self-pity stain, so he turned around and once he was sure he made it into his now clean bedroomthe roommate had quit crying and fallen asleepNarrator stripped naked and sang an old song to himself to fall asleep naturally, hoping like hell that he would never wake once his eyelids resisted the urge to jump again.
But he did wake, and when he did Narrator noticed that the sun was still too bright, the waters still too gray, and the confusion was still too powerful.
That morning, the doors grew eyes to monitor his sanity.
He can count the scars on his arm, but he stops once he reaches a number that doesnt exist somewhere between eight-hundred and nineteen trillion umpteen billion of a fraction multiplied by the squared root of fucking misery. Hes all alone this time, no calculator helping him, no bedpost to scratch these memories into, and no hourglass to measure the centuries.
Hes been crying for years.
While the roommate bawled in the other room, for reasons unknown to Narrator, maybe for the fact that he had to punt poor boy's head like a football to dislodge the vomit out of his throat to save his life, or maybe his balls still hurtNarrator doesn't knowbut while the roommate wept, Narrator grabbed some enormous black trash bags and started stuffing the years into them. It took him hours, even without taking a second glance at anything to make sure it was indeed trash. He didnt care. Everything must go. If it was on the floor amid the rubble, it was branded shit, and therefore it was going away. And once he had filled eleven bags, and his floor was immaculate, Narrator began to crawl around on his hands and knees picking those tiny bits of invisible fuzz and mosquito wings out of the carpet that only his mind could see and they bothered the hell out of him and he could feel a panic attack looming if he didnt get the fuck out of there and take a walk where he knew the wings would be everywhere and he would just have to accept that he couldnt clean the entire world.
The air was just as cold as he remembered it being last December.
He loved December like he loved taking walks in Houston at four in the morning with vomit stains on his shirt and thinking of helium with his roommate still crying on the bed.
Maybe he needed direction that wouldnt ever come if he didnt get help. Maybe he didnt want it.
The vomit stain on his shirt was turning into a self-pity stain, so he turned around and once he was sure he made it into his now clean bedroomthe roommate had quit crying and fallen asleepNarrator stripped naked and sang an old song to himself to fall asleep naturally, hoping like hell that he would never wake once his eyelids resisted the urge to jump again.
But he did wake, and when he did Narrator noticed that the sun was still too bright, the waters still too gray, and the confusion was still too powerful.
That morning, the doors grew eyes to monitor his sanity.
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