Ninety Minutes of Pornography (like, like, like Dateless Date Night)

It is with you, my temporary saint, that I smoke my last cigarette. Does anyone really do favors anymore? Because it seems like nobody cares, including myself, as I train myself to not to. Am I more than my thousand names? Your hands are so used to holding things and I know that your back and your chest must be so very tired from carrying the pounds of pugnacious punctilo just like my mouth is tired of lying aching words through throbbing teeth. But you have slept it off and now it is time for me to go to bed, which means that it is time for you to get up and go out of this room and bust me into shards like glass like fractals like slow motion like the highest pointilistic art all around you as you punch through that two-way pad-locked missile-proof ceiling like that famous elevator did to that candy factory; so you can be free to go wherever it is that you go, in your mind. The sign says something wickeder this way comes and I have to admit, I am having difficulty believing that.

It is all actually so much less glamorous but I am under the influence.

If you love me, come show me.