Timeline?

Malcolm, Malcolm. Maaalcolm. :]

Shallow shallow shallow grave.

Shouting shout,
"His dick is a monster!"

And what's left, left left left?
Daniel Johnston records and wet socks.

I'm sitting up against a wall. Rippled and cold. Storage. Paul's pushing at my shoulder. I breathe and stammer out words.
“How?"
“We're leaving. Can you walk?” Wiping his little blade on his little jeans.
“Well enough.” Or not at all. I can't feel my left thigh. Soaked through with what I hope is water, my jacket pulls on me as I stand. Two backpacks. “Take this one, if you can.” I can. I slip it on and tighten the straps so it tucks against my shoulders. It's lumped and cold and uncomfortable. Step and sting. My thigh screams. I slap it.
“Just over through this path and up through the parking lot.” About 40 yards. Stinging sting. Give me a drip. Give me a Meredith. Like sludge, the wet dirt kicks up with each step. Peppering my calves and my feet are so cold. Wet, wet. I baby each step with my left.
“We good?” Far from it.
“Yeah.” Behind the unfinished strip mall. A glaring light with flashing clock and Fahrenheit meters.Saggy and brown, the ankles of my jeans meet paved parking spaces. The low glow of three street lamps giving light to two dead ones. Stinging sting, I wince but can't stop. Give me a Mere. Paul's a small lump on the edge of the lot, peeking out to the road. “We good?” yelling at me.
“Yep.” not as loud. He turns back and walks maybe 5 steps and sits on the curb.
“I'll wait up.” Just leave. I'd run if I could. 4 feet away.
“Mhm. I'll wait with you.” I bend and let myself fall to the curb. Slipping my arms out, I lay back against the lamp post. A deep moan from the lot and a truck pulls in.

Six of us. Where did our clothes end up?

"I'm going this way."
and I peck my father on the lips and neurons zip around and I feel 10 again.

Letting it fall out.

Like punk. Like DIY. Like last time. Like desperate attempts of using adjectives to describe music. Like all the love pumping through my neck.

Erotic and unrefined.
Get sleeeped.s

No, Dutch.

Fists and feet and elbows.
Like closed-hand slaps. Sloppy headbutts and a cacaphony of curses.

He ripped my shirt.

And you get sick and scared and sick.

"You seem like a pretty OK guy, so I'll use some lube. Forgive me, my wife is also doctor here and she has smaller hands than I do."

And you get sick and calm and sick.

Annoying.

I'm going to walk this way and I'm inviting anyone with a map.

CLOCK CITY

I'm very tempted to take this little story I'm writing and have it evolve into an apocalyptic drama thing.

Sweat and sweat and sleep.
I should just play little secret shows in houses and apartments.

It's a dumb. Dumb dumb.

I want to get obliterated by drugs and fists. Not often.

My apathy has put me in an uncomfortable routine. Self-diagnosed because I don't trust anyone. Anymore. The Sun and the Moon reminding me that I'm still looking at them through the same trees and from over the same hills.
I strive for something other than a constant state of indifference.
I have wanderlust with no will to wander. I don't have a group or a following or someone to follow. Go to bed and go to bed.

Get up and finish your novella. Your song. Your hugs.