The traffic is raging outside, yet the dust has settled. I can't keep my hands off the breasts of the eighty year old woman that's sitting beside me in the theater. Citizen Kane is playing and I know I must hurriedly get out because it feels like pornography in here.
I walked into a rest room where a girl was giving a stubby-dicked motherfucker a hand job. They watched themselves in the cracked mirror. When I walked in, they screamed. I told them I had to take a piss. She began to cry, so I pissed on their shoes. When I walked out, I watched two lesbians pour water down each others shirts. I asked them if they knew Nashville. "Sunday's two days away," they said in unison.
The longer this play continues, the sadder the boy with chubby hands gets. He's a big zero, a man dependent upon his teenage angst to get him through. The older he gets, the longer it takes him to get an erection. Soon it will take him sixteen hours to even feel it. A strange German girl tells me they call him Impotent Billy, fighter of the good fight.
The Cains who need no Abels. The victims of a war within themselves. The ones that notice the dishinesty of their world when it is viewed in the moonlight.
Between you and I, I am looking for a place to go--another roof to cover my head.
More dreams to leave unfulfilled.
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