I have thoughts. Crazy, rambling, beasts of thoughts. I sit quietly as if on a park bench and watch them go by like strangers. Once past I scarcely think of them, these thoughts. But sometimes they frighten me.
-Bukowski, is he a good read? I wonder what is the definitive Bukowski?
-I wonder what I would be like as a mother? Would I freak out about things that I normally wouldn't have out of frustration or some other motherly sort of feeling that I can't help?
-I wonder if Laura will be ok. What is happening to her? What about Iris?
-Wait. Those aren't real people, Lauren.
-I think I'm snapping. Me and the beans.
-If I just started reading again I would find out what is happening to Iris and Laura.
-No, I know where it is going and I don't think I quite like it. I'd rather sit here and make things up.
-Iris isn't going to tell Laura that she has been having an affair and everything will be fine.
-I like Modest Mouse.
-Paul Simon is pretty good too.
-I like musicians who write songs about literature. I don't know that Paul Simon has done this. -I was thinking about Modest Mouse, Led Zeppelin, the like.
-It seems like this is seeping out. Am I talking?
-No.
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