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the flower called nowhere (or henry chinaski)
2004-11-10 | 9:36 p.m.

and so I'm applying to julliard to study piano, in new york city, the charles bukowski of cities, a gray and swarming place, unrestrained, watched by the world. cross your innards for me.

before birth, I cartwheeled on the loafed clouds of many-mansioned heaven, and I watched as god(s) sorted millions and billions of souls into different body-bins and different times and places. and as I watched, he picked me up by my cosmic collar and, as I squirmed in protest, dangled me over the bin marked 'age of irony.' he dropped me in, indifferently. what am I doing here? I'm in a land of silky-textured television sets, surrounded by the bright, artificially white, smiling laughter of the carefully-constructed sitcom.

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