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Monday, December 6, 2004
100 words each.
The Pessimist stepped out his house wearing a face askew. “Why isn’t this a yellow-as-piss day,” he said. He watched people weed the sidewalks, their faces fake happiness, watched cars scuttle, pollution trails following, saw the blearing sun smiling.
Crazed grin he stepped in the street’s middle. A car stopped, another behind it, others, until a line formed. Multitudes of honking, pedestrians turn unhappy faces toward him, strangled from petty lives.
He dug in his pocket, took out some dust, scattered it in the wind. It whisked away. “You’re just dust in the wind.” Walking away, his pointless day began.
he shot the sun watched the lights go out around the globe smiled a yellow as piss smile sure he heard half the world shocked being eternally bathed in perilous night pressing against them the world was forever shut down but still spinning around blanketed in shadows in a well-founded darkness that he wished for in his deepest self.
he shut his tired wasted eyes feeling sleepful dreams slither in his head playing pretty dancing dreams of nothing tap dancing in blindness he hoped to never open his eyes ever hoped he would dream forever so his dreams became reality.
the paper's blank the words will create a disillusioned streak to make the blank a meaning when none is greening on a grass yellowing nothing harsh on my back as i roll along it stamping my form in its surface leaving an impression that will die with the death each breath another sigh to the inevitable end it may bend but there's nothing to send to the future's far away heart it will only fall apart a hollow shuttle too frail weak and infirm even though all i've learned earned when it wastes i waste i feel just a taste.
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