Dependency

Denizen: an inhabitant or occupant of a particular place.

Rummaging through the wastebasket for something to smoke on. He had to bum just to get that high. It wasn't his high point of the day, what a pun. That rhymes with bum. Not getting much writing done with all of these distractions. But thats all good. I got a completed check today 200 food stamps. That will burn through the end of the day if not tomorrow. But it is something that can be afforded. A pile full of groceries.

And an antedote for another time. He could get by for just asking from his friends if he wanted to. They would provide while he couldn't. If only for today. And not for tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to do for himself. To leave his hawaiian shirt on the rack. Should it be pretended. I do not know right now. None of that matter to him he just wanted what was owed him. No matter what he had to do for it. Nobody had known what he had done but himself, the desire was always there.

He was a liar above all else. And he could not keep this comment to himself. Telling fibs all his life. Playing his games and not allowing anyone to come into his bubble. His personal bubble that kept him sane. It made him sad to say the least that he could not express himself the way he wanted to. And that the tension always came in the form of a lighted stick of death. It mystified him and drove away his attention at the same time. As well as acting lachyrmose. Sinister wisdom would not get him far. It would side track his thoughts. Keeping him from being frustrated.

He would not stand for it. Or let it control him it would just have to pass naturally. His inner sense would have to work just fine. Or the lack there of. The accomplishment would have to come from somewhere else in his mind. Otherwise his destiny would be wack. And the control would no longer be there. It would have been wasted fast. The cloud pack came back. And it was upsetting him. The twisted words were none other than right. It scarred him for life. But he had to rise above it, if he wanted to keep sane. The misery was there all along and the judgement was so hard to find. It itched him no matter how hard he tried.

Tomorrow he would get up and write some more because he enjoyed it. Not because he could make something out of it. Even though he could do both at the same time. And it would still make him happy. Why is he wearing gloves is he trapped in his own skin. Or does he just enjoy keeping his hands warm when it is super cold. The torture of it all is that he did not seem to notice the cold weather, gloves or not. Attention and dedication to keep his sunshine on closed doors. Doesn't make much sense but in time it will.

It was all chemically altered in its own way anyways. But that does not follow the regime. It would just slowly renumerate his problems. And the brass knuckles would help in time. Or would they just make the problems worse he did not know yet. He would have to play catch up. Or just push on through the boundaries that he did not like. The boundaries would go further than he imagined. Trying to keep his mouth closed in this paradigm.