Blow in a Tall Building

The melodrama of moving is not lost on me. There is the participatory roommate, who helps everyone else with their things, there is the anti-participatory roommate, who retires to deep masturbatory fits for the duration, and there is nothing in between. There is a capacity inside everybody to be polar, and it is manifest the most on moving day.

Since I'm a proud participatory mover, I've spent the last few days rummaging through the deep recesses of my possessions and repositioning them in a karma-concious blueprint in a new abode. The tired I feel now isn't of this world: it's like sleepwalking into a pile of cocaine, like my front two teeth feel a little numb, like I can't remember the alphabet, like I couldn't even fall asleep because closing my eyes isn't worth the expenditure of energy.

I am sitting, as I do every weekday, in a tall building in Manhattan, and I don't know which of my faculties is powering my fingertips on the keyboard, but suffice it to say that, whatever this fuel is, it's in scarce company in the tank. My conciousness is thinning.

Stay catatonic me,

MC if anyone out there doesn't watch entourage i encourage you to do so