There's a used bookstore requiring you to pay at the main store that looks like a kiosk so you can access their library of books across the street. Stealing paperbacks is easy. Smuggling textbooks is a different story, but who wants to steal those unless you're a student. Shakespeares has these student markings in the margins, a couple phrases circled and underlined to the point where the pen rips the page making the next page illegible, and speech bubbles with confusing eurekas: where am I going! Most of these books are leftovers from weekend Summer Vacations, drugstore and supermarket purchases, a lot of marriage manuals written by a guy named Wittgenstein. Stacks of National Geographic overwhelmed the shelves, which totally makes sense (who really reads those?). I ripped out a couple pages from some photography books and pinned them on my wall and thought myself artistic.
Here I'd say I think therefore I am, though having the ability to think would express an established existence, therefore expunging the essence of the axiom and obliterating my febrile mimesis since my own reality is at jeopardy.
A dead body outside the window distracted my eye from the black and white lines of the stolen picture of a photograph pinned to my mauve walls. Upon further speculation the dead body was really melting snow in the shape of a prostrated humanoid. A cat came by and burned a yellow hole in the poor fellow's head.
A man with a deep white v-neck stuck half his body out the window and reached in his mailbox. His house is an off-color olive shade. The house next to his is salmon-orange. The house next to that is dull beige. What do you think is the color of the next house? The woman that lives in the mystery house flicks her cigarette buds in the drive-way and sweeps them up at the end of the week. The collection of crinkled Marlboros pile high on the sidewalk Saturday morning then magically disappear until next week. The people in the salmon-orange house are never home, but their garage opens and closes every Tuesday at 3pm to let us know the place is occupied. A family lives in the dull beige house. The only language they speak is scream, and on lonely nights you can hear their voices pile higher than the stacks of National Geographic or the neighborhood Marlboro graveyard.
This is all very interesting but this photograph looks like it moved. When you stare at something long enough, like a self portrait, maxillofacial features shift into a smile. That's just your mind playing tricks on you. Of course the picture isn't moving. Thinking tends to inimically augur external elements, therefore giving credence to our thinking and am-ing, that existence is only found where the mind lends itself.
