i don't wanna die. but ah, to vacate this reality. not everything in it, just the reality. the ruthlessness. i wanna live but i'm so tired. well partly because i stayed up too late watching portrait of a woman on fire.
mister pooped wads of toilet paper. he's pooping good and solid now, pulp.  
a lady moved into the bus shelter across the street. i saw her before in the alley behind, stomping her feet to chase the squirrels and rats out of the dumpster. what should i do, after feeling sorry and lucky? could i give her cash for a hotel room? 
but everything we do just seems like biding time, spending time, buying time, trading lives, in the capital of disaster.