why do shiny things have to hurt

It's what you wanted. Escape. False hope. Life.

In the air is a cool smell like filtered water and antiseptic spray. The olfactory is working hard and it gets harder to tell. The mud sticks to stilettos as they pass from car door to car door. Put some quick clot on that wound. There is a line on the paper asking for qualifications and a sketched answer barely legible, written by an awkward human hand. I am a man. I breathe, eat, shit, and sleep. I made it this far I think it's time for the prize. No more standing in line. No more lines. No more rustling of paper and wishing I was somewhere else. When I came here today I spit on every car window in the parking lot. I feel no remorse. I trudged in and drug the mud of a thousand lives with me, living in the cool artificial light of meaningless existence. I fell into a chair where you and everyone/god told me to sit. Now I breathe cheap vodka in your face and dream of the tomorrow we meet with different eyes. Please give me the job, if anyone needs it I do.

Speeding car crashes
killing
dashboard splintered glass
neon shades and the painted green grass
moist bottle glistening
lines in the sidewalks
stones in the path
whether its looking in pictures
or watering the plant
vacuuming the carpet
or researching the facts
my olfactory produces us
in every little task