fig.45.95) often ranched with the ghosts, in the neat sight of the sun.
"The hurry up art is under the bad stairs, crusty paintings and framed photos sharing their time with a few well marked, four color calendars. Gary, Denise and the other Gallery-Friends will be here soon. But that bunch from the Disco isn't coming until later, their Doctor Person is always late. But right now, Alice and Chloe are fitting the last light bulbs into place before the big show tonight."
In the garden behind their house, Milton is writing before opening up the gallery. He has coffee to drink and cigarettes to smoke, but sometimes he'll still share breakfast with Alice. They're neighbors and they like to sit behind the small house together, talking about the scale of elephant jokes, talking about couches and mice. The slow tease of a perfect oolong tea making both of them giggle. At night they sometimes drink martinis and they read from a favorite shared dictionary, laughing even more.
Milton writes, "I'm full of lame and lifeless parts that I don't understand, I'm always scared because nothing seems go away."
Gary, Denise and the other Gallery-Friends will come over for all the Gallery's receptions, they love the experience. But the bunch from the Disco always come late and they complain about headaches. Their Doctor Person has to change into her anarchy cloths before drinking the wine, she has tears that can cry all night long. So, Alice and Chloe have time to fit the last bulbs into place. Both of their sweaters are dusty with sweat and ancient debris that once hid above the ceiling tiles. Both of them smiling like punks.
"Alice, dreaming urchin weeps in the garden at night. Alice on file, slum-tinkling tight fits like an old habit, a dark kink or an old man sitting to potty, gotta go home some day! Alice, sits on the train all day, aimless aimless nerd."
"It's probably just stupid and dumb. You being busy, I know that it annoys you when I send stuff for you have to read. It's work, grandiose labors which none shall touch or speak of. I also know that when I write it down all, but it seems to be broken and doesn't sound like a real person is talking; I know you hate that most of all. It's like work, a labor that children will deny and the sorry dread. I'm sorry that I'm like this. I wish I could share things that you want to share in, but I'm pretty certain I'll never be able to do that."
"I can listen, I hear that your respect for me is softening. Maybe, I'm a weight now, something that's growing darker and more selfish in your mind, like a sour burden screaming to be touched. I've become bad childcare and my promises have forced you into the gathering arms of our closet, where nothing ever gets touched."
Milton continues to write, "Sad flesh, a door stop with its heavy side stuck in bathroom pee, under a mirror made of scratched plastic."
In the garden behind their house, Milton is writing before opening up the gallery. He has coffee to drink and cigarettes to smoke, but sometimes he'll still share breakfast with Alice. They're neighbors and they like to sit behind the small house together, talking about the scale of elephant jokes, talking about couches and mice. The slow tease of a perfect oolong tea making both of them giggle. At night they sometimes drink martinis and they read from a favorite shared dictionary, laughing even more.
Milton writes, "I'm full of lame and lifeless parts that I don't understand, I'm always scared because nothing seems go away."
Gary, Denise and the other Gallery-Friends will come over for all the Gallery's receptions, they love the experience. But the bunch from the Disco always come late and they complain about headaches. Their Doctor Person has to change into her anarchy cloths before drinking the wine, she has tears that can cry all night long. So, Alice and Chloe have time to fit the last bulbs into place. Both of their sweaters are dusty with sweat and ancient debris that once hid above the ceiling tiles. Both of them smiling like punks.
"Alice, dreaming urchin weeps in the garden at night. Alice on file, slum-tinkling tight fits like an old habit, a dark kink or an old man sitting to potty, gotta go home some day! Alice, sits on the train all day, aimless aimless nerd."
"It's probably just stupid and dumb. You being busy, I know that it annoys you when I send stuff for you have to read. It's work, grandiose labors which none shall touch or speak of. I also know that when I write it down all, but it seems to be broken and doesn't sound like a real person is talking; I know you hate that most of all. It's like work, a labor that children will deny and the sorry dread. I'm sorry that I'm like this. I wish I could share things that you want to share in, but I'm pretty certain I'll never be able to do that."
"I can listen, I hear that your respect for me is softening. Maybe, I'm a weight now, something that's growing darker and more selfish in your mind, like a sour burden screaming to be touched. I've become bad childcare and my promises have forced you into the gathering arms of our closet, where nothing ever gets touched."
Milton continues to write, "Sad flesh, a door stop with its heavy side stuck in bathroom pee, under a mirror made of scratched plastic."
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