/lit/ - Literature

The New York Sunrise shone through my newspaper blinds this morning informing me that unlike yesterday, today was not to be overcast. But who am I to say, the weather is as fickle as I am in front of the produce section in the grocery store, sparking in me the thought of one of Uncle Persimmons' many aphorisms: "that's an apples an' oranges discussion, one to be saved for never."
My pre-ambulatory ritual of ceiling gazing, silken sulking, and general self-loathing always invites the strangest memories, ones that seldom save me the bilateral relief akin to Mephedrone for a back-alley cream cowboy. Before coherent thoughts can form in the wake of my drifting body, I find myself staring at me in the mirror. I've noticed that the pressure in my life has manifested itself as a pimple on the border of my forehead. If squeeze harder I will probably pop. Giggling at my own melodrama, I shave, brush my teeth, wash my face, pluck straggling hairs, and echo the two latin words I know: Carpet Diem. A zip, a zap, an electrical burst of energy and I'm outside, smitten by smog and Wall Street hogs. The stifling murmur of cars and syllabic bars rumble the foundation of the sand castle built on concrete that I see myself as; it's not the foundation's fault, it's the architects.
And so, spiting mom, dad, and genetics in general inclines me to turn the treadmill up one notch and head to where I spend my daytime, "work." A slideshow of pristinely homeless, filthy rich, and basic humans occupy my stroll until I hear the last thing I do. "Hey Macaulay Culkin!"