#70

if only if only if only my mother had never been born i could not be boring you right now with this inanity of a story of a writer sitting in his bedroom writing about a writer writing about infinite regress into the void of labyrinthine morally flabby literature that is more of a mental exercise than a beautiful experience but maybe were all these little dinky things collected into one vast volume the ephemerality and inconsequentiality of each piece on its own would become a moot thought because the collection of poems sequenced to give an ebb and flow feeling to the thought wave and the pieces synergizing off each other would create something big and beautiful so maybe i should make me a copy with everything in order and with a nice cover and give it to a friend to see what he thinks like danny in new york except that he always liked these little things so maybe i should give it to hilary except that shes a snob and she told me i was ordinary like a frat boy which would piss me off except that i sort of liked her before that so when i found out she thought she was superior she became my enemy and especially since i wrote that last thing i cant send it to her