Apartment Story

I can talk all the nonsense I want, and my abecedarian wit will not compensate for my lack of intelligence. I think the the Writer was correct in his assumption when he said,

"A man writes because he is tormented, because he doubts. He needs to constantly prove to himself and the others that he's worth something. And if I know for sure that I'm a genius? Why write then? What the hell for?"

And what about the Professor? Didn't he have some good points? That everything takes just as much faith as it does truth in order to function. Even if something doesn't exist, if enough people believe in it, does that make it real? If hope provides a false relief does that same hope deserve to be destroyed? I don't know.

I was looking out my window and I saw some fire engines and a mother and her son on the roof of their apartment. I see some orchids in the window of someones apartment. There's a parakeet that flies around that same room. There's wine to be drank! Or is it drunk!? I don't know.

Disposable cameras from 20 years ago and Super Nintendo. Dragonfly across an ancient sky. Individual packets of mayonnaise and ketchup. Mixtapes and the like. Control, Alt, Delete. Band-aids and chocolate cake. Cement trucks and Hungarian restaurants.

Quick, post a picture so nobody will read what you wrote. Wait a minute here, mister! Hey, I'm talking to you! If I don't make it home will you call my wife?