productivenot admitting
defeat make it any less real?)
Excerpt from Desert Island
by London Hawley
I learned how to cut keys. I wrote a letter to a friend. I held thousands of dollars, briefly.
I explained a mistake. I faxed a bill. I washed the blood off my hands.
I enjoyed three reasonably sized meals. I made appointments. My voice broke.
I drank peach juice. A friend called. I made plans for someone else's wedding.
I was thrilled by the thought of violence.
But really, nothing happened.
EDIT: Due to a misunderstanding, I must clarify that this post is a humourous commentary on the bugs out here. I constantly have other people/animal's blood on my hands from slapping mosquitos, and there are giant flies everywhere, and this week is horribly annoying for bugs. I was just writing poetry, everyone. Chill.
