Breakfast in Las Vegas;

Another piece of “epistolary” writing to a friend—

for the sake of trying to be more active on here.

I wish they were calling to break bread. Instead, every

call nowadays is apropos to the “bread” I owe, and

giving closure to margins that I couldn’t spare unless I

was ripping off parts of me to pay back the debt. Imagine

$3,000 in the form of what I could spare in flesh, $8,000

from marrow, $17,812 directly from what I’d scrape from

arteries and capillaries.

I’d barely have enough left to feel sorry for myself.

(Leave the liver, no one’s getting anything from that.)


I have this idea I’ve been mulling that we’re bad hunters

until our appetite changes. I have another idea that I truly

can fake it ’til I make it. In whatever regard I choose.

If I choose.

I guess I’m just chock-full of ideas, these being two of many

that pass through me like a tributary finding a new, foreign

soil—relentless, and engrained with something that resembles

a past lifetime worth spending.

I’ll find something somewhere, surely.

Until then, I guess I’ll just ache and vibrate, even when

stationary is only meant to feel like a form of

transportation to the next mode of movement.


I guess in many ways I’m craving a breakfast in Las Vegas—

mimosas at 8:00 with a tower of pancakes, as the skyline

towers over, reflected off of silver plates and blinding me

in one eye.

Take an escape if you can find it.

I’d swim in Vegas’ sewers if it meant new experience. I’d get

to know the rats on a first name basis. I’d learn their language

and understand their behavior. I’d teach them that they

actually may have it better.

What could they teach me?


P.S.—I think this is going to be a perpetual cycle of speaking

at you. I like it in a weird way.

P.P.S.—There’s a lot I need to unpack and I appreciate you

being here for it. We replace the contents every time we don’t.

I also can’t get over the fact that you are in fact an I.

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