whenever i breach the 100 number threshold
of readers, i turn weary...
    impossible...
      always that impossibility -
      how could it even reach 100 people
let alone diverge with the threshold?
    the only reason why i started writing
is because i decided:
    life couldn't be more boring than this,
might as well write about...
   and i'm no escapist - no magician
with some Minotaur's head worth of
a fictional saga... either...
       when there's 20 or so voyeurs i'm
happy...
    like some Jew said about the audience
of Pythagoras -
counting 30? an authentic crowd...
                   hell...
    there's also the devil's dozen...
    which makes it 13 with John the Baptist
to begin with...
      over 80cl of whiskey and
i am not currently thinking about diet...
    S.J.W.'s?
    what... pink haired...
    with someone like little book owl
reviews of books, and reading?
anne hathaway can say the name
matthew all day long...
          i'd still pretend to not love falling
asleep to that voice and that particular
word...
just saying...
           ****... there was another number
though...
           ah... 2...
is it just me, or are only women prone
to rereading books?
  how can women reread books?
   isn't once enough?
                    i'd rather burn a cigarette
on my knuckle than reread a book...
currently?
   third or fourth layer of scab tissue -
itching as it stretches a fourth or fifth
layer laboring disguise...
oh sure sure... cutting the skin...
   girlie girlie...
        next time?
            try burning out a cigarette on
your knuckles... with a fist clenched...
    such wonders for weeks to come...
why ***** out on mere cutting
the flesh?
             why not put out a cigarette
the closest you can come to
mingling flesh with bone - on your knuckles?
- but i'm pretty sure i had
some other number in mind...
   ****... flew out of my head...
started thinking about what i would
feed my feral
  pet the almost year old fox
tomorrow come 7pm.