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IJie^/ 77v/Vf/^ Stratton ^imgle
/ wrote u'lhite of
to
lhu<
my time.
one day after
I'm
,<ure
it
me. So, I decide(ht woult) he a
Don
'/
reai)
It
it.
','
.;
wii^'te
ILiteniiiij to .loine
maA- her ,jooi)
fee/ <;oOi>
u)ea lor
woman on
ahoul hemelf
me
XPR reat> ihij piece of literature that
{,'he
couLI call her,ielfculturet>). hut
wa.' ,<imply
a
meant nothuuj
lo write ^'omethinij iu.it a.' i/ootK'O that I coult> call m\/,'elfcultureJ.
of lime.
Today someone died. was staring into her soul when the life just sort was a lot like one of those blazing hot summer days when you just lie on I
her.
it
o(
e\aporated out of
pa\ement and gaze haphazardly through the heat waves, letting them turn your world into a blurr\' middle-Earth. stumbled over a small boy on her Hoor He was content. Just content to exist. He couldn't talk, but It
the
1
I
knew what
he meant.
The only way that she was going to go back to him was if he changed his ways. Sure, he was and he had a steady )ob. But he was addicted to professional wrestling. You know, the kind where the greasy, jerry-curled, mammoth-sized dude struts out to the tune of "Girls, Girls. Girls" or some other cock-rock cliche. He would come home after work, grab a cold beer, sit in his recliner. and nice,
leave this world. a
October
43
For lour straight hours, both time and space became non-existent as he
cacophony of egos and bad acting. It was dusk when it Hew away. sky.
It
was not
a
bad thing.
It
was
like
watching the embers of a
fire Hitter
lost
up
himselt in
into a clear
