American Wednesday

Posted: March 4, 2013 in Uncategorized

“I am killing myself,” he thought slowly, slower than he was actually killing himself but faster than life itself would, “because it is the only method through which man can truly control the length of events that transpire.” He took a long drag from the pipe, the contents tasting metallic and hot, like a steel factory filling up his lungs. The pipe hit the table with a tinking sound that would have made his muscles tense if there were any nerve signals able to make it through to order them to do so. The sound of pipe on table, glass on glass with more force than intended (for he had dropped the pipe rather than set it down due to the chemicals residing far too long in his lungs) was upsetting, and so when the chemistry of his brain began to alter, toward a numbness and acceptance of time passing, the last thought he was left with was an uneasiness or worry that set the tone for the next few hours. The television didn’t work, the couch was uncomfortable, and everybody else was busy getting things done. He was just going to sit here and calculate the days he’d lost like this, juggled with trying not to set the house on fire.

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