[February the twenty-seventh]
My hair is unwashed and here is blood in my spit.
There is *** on my shirt, requires care to notice.
I have a headache and took two chewable aspirin.
My hand on my cock!
Five, say, ten cumshot salute!
Ready, Aim, Shoot!
I played with a toothpick, pushed into my gums
whenever the professor looked quizzical.
I pick my nose whenever I'm sitting,
smeared where -I can, -it sticks.
I can feel bits of mud, gravel on scalp
between hairs. Been digging, you see.
Sand in the bed, too. Gets in on the feet.
Feels like ants. I walk in from the site.
I feel armless, a little regretful I started
writing this.

-Took vitamins
-Did reading
-Call parents
-Get sleep

When Carter woke up I hadn't even closed my eyes yet,
had'm locked dead on the grain woman on my screen,
hand beneath the blanket--But oh, how the sun came in.
Carter couldn't move at all. He was sitting on that one.
There.
I knew I was going to die that day, sometime,
did when I opened the shade and Rachmaninoff's
op. 14, №6 You Are Loved By All played. I didn't, now,
but I might have a kidney stone.