i wash my hands in the spring and take a picture of mister drinking and i hear a tearing sound. 

my butt is hanging tight in the cool breeze.

for a moment i think i have to flee, then again, who cares, i have underwear, thanks to r., but as well, who cares if one skinny white ass hangs in the cool breeze. and i continue watching him, and meditating on singular and collective endings.

 

i have to prepare for this ending, not only mister, but whatever and all that is ending in our time. it's not only us. the companies are killing the life of the planet. if we can't change government business of dirty wars and dirty economies, we must prepare for death on a mass scale.