One quarter of an hour to two in the afternoon and it's just me and a clear red bottle of amphetamine salts. Sleepless, stagnating mind counting and recounting thirty periwinkle bumblebees full of not enough good shit to enhance dopaminergic activity. Six hours of sleep in seventy two hours of life leaves me cursing the devil eye and aching for slumber but my rhythm is non-circadian so I diddle my shame instead. I'm no monk. A little closer to two in the afternoon. Manipulating my erogenous zones does nothing to quell the recent and surprising want of affection. Customary hugs for genetic relations are par for the course but the course ends there. You sign your correspondences with x's and o's, I sign mine with f’s and u's. Flesh on flesh preserved for those whose flesh I want my flesh in without exception. That is to say those I want to fuck, those being few and far between. I'm no town bicycle. The next fully formed bipedal of my species with acceptable levels of imperfections and the only acceptable level of infectious disease I get within arms reach of will be the target of my ardor. Canoodling, exchange of expectoration and copulation are acceptable individually or in succession. Three minutes to two in the afternoon. Believe what you read. If getting close is undesirable stay away. I'm no monk.
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