PART 11

Room service in Atlanta. That would be the last job I would ever want. Continually knocking on strangers doors in their in-between space. People treat hotel rooms like the rich kid they don’t really want to hang out with. CURRENTLY: sitting in the future of the South, exhausted, blue berry pancakes, whiskey mouth, hazy remembrance of a cab ride, baby talk, laughing, being intense. I need someone to follow me around with a mic connected to my brain and document every single thought and movement I make for a day or 50 years. details. details. Then, I’ll realize my own boredom and kindness and normalcy… and assess whether I would fight someone or not. My mother said I am more like my father than I think. He fought. And got arrested I think. Oh, the 70’s. When drugs were like new products for infants that needed to be tested and love was a sect of the imagination. Start that over. Where drugs were fucking everywhere and love was exactly the same.