20071106

My Waste Is A Good Life

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and unused wood pulp. Eighty pages of hydrogen bonded cellulose free of graphite content despite carping inner voices begging for text. Attempts at fiscal gain via literature continue to elude despite no effort. I'd settle for a completed work of fiction but millions of pieces of green paper would not be unacceptable. I'm no hippie. A little closer to six in the morning. Vagabond Prose. Misnomer. I never go anywhere. Hermitic living is contrary to titular claims but hermit has a shitty ring to it and crustacean connotations. I'm no crab. Given my stylistic tendencies Purple Prose would be apt but purple signifies royalty. I'm no king. Periods of time spent not leaving the house leads to forgetting initial reasons for seclusions. Excursions into society remind me. One minute to six in the morning. My hell is a good life.

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