Maybe a leather coat, maybe a couple pairs of bad looking denim shirts, covered in coffee grounds and aways smelling like oatmeal, okra seed pants
or something. Maybe beat up Nike high tops. No. Shoes made half of camomile, no, apple, no, lemon zest- must be lemon zest- the flavors, you know. The other half pure sugar- the flavors, commingling, one day in the future, this- the future, so brazen- no- smooth. Maybe some cloudy day- hot day, something humid to make us work- we take off our shoes, put down our boxes, beat. Work, work, tired, sad, work. Soggy. Tomorrow I am going to turn into a fish, and it is going to be like that for the rest of my existence- fish-like, sad and tired. Soggy. I will not swim away yety. Tomorrow I will be better at being puff daddy than I was today. In the nineties everybody was tired- not sad about it, just tired. Everybody wore bad denim pants and tired jackets- sagging, soggy, made out of half camomile and half coffee grounds, and none of them, those nineties people, complained. No complaints for being in the nineties, sad, bleeding or sweating lemon zest- one of each, either blood or sweat escaping them always. Plodding, maniacal. Some days I think of words- puff daddy- commingling, and I get seriously depressed. Don’t tell me you are sad. Puff daddy is never sad, just tired. Now I can swim away.