proof of identity

Still snowing. Still winding. Not winding, mind you, but winding. The ‘i’ is a short sound. Touch the roof of your mouth with your tongue. Go on. I promise I won’t watch.

I’m not really paying attention. Justin Roth concert tonight. Pulled a rabbit out of my cranium, wrote an article about it and sent it down to the editors in the musty dungeon full of chains and wrath. Lord knows what they plan for it. Perhaps they will slice it into thin strips and use it to whip prisoners. Or maybe they will stick it in some hot water and brew a mighty fine tea. Crumpets and tea at noon, my lady. Don’t mind the octopus; I just keep him around to open up stuck mason jars.

One piece of writing scrawled into the wall, four more to go. How wonderful it will feel to finish number five, scratch that line straight through the other four. Closure. Until the next, yes, but temporary, yes. Indeed.

I think I will read Walden or perhaps sleep or possibly find out why the Round About was closed today. This weather seems to be complicating my savvy reporting to no end.

She wants to write my essay, but she knows not of the philosophies of David Hume. Silly little girl. Silly, little, 17-year-old girl. I’ll bet she still reads YM magazine. Not that I read it, oh no. Never. I despise drivel like that, especially in grocery store checkout lanes. We finished off the cake today.

Poetic license has been torn asunder. There will be no proof of reading.