My fat, fleshy pale belly pushes the inside of my shirt out, and I'm ripping off Bukowski.
The sign for the travel section was far too obvious for me to have noticed. And you can tell you are by the woman's magazine section by the perfume scent that burns your nose. Strangers watch me type these notes into my phone notepad thinking how superficial young people are these days texting all the time.
And suddenly, I am shooting **** into the current. tossing my wedding band into the ocean waves reflecting the moon like... trying to write fast enough to catch up to my thoughts and the words come crashing into them a train going off a cliff.
And suddenly, weaver ants are carrying eggs, devouring albino widows. Ochroma flower licked by Kinkajou, insects lapped up from their grave of sugary water.