Boring. If you are bored, you are boring. My grandmother told me that, which bored me. I would wait for her to leave on her errands before I went to snoop through her bathroom and bedroom. I looked for wooden boxes. I looked for smells. That's what I looked for. Never a dull moment is what I heard when I eavesdropped. Never a dull moment. It was a dull moment. She tried to convince her husband to eat the beets she had boiled. He did not want to eat them. He would not eat them, so she took the beet water--it was still a deep redpurple--and poured it over his head. The windowsill tasted of licorice ever since she had laid many ropes of licorice in its spidery hideaways, which never failed to drown all comers simply by convincing them that, yes, the bombs had been dropped even though it was a balmy Sunday. More dresses could have been supplied to the ugly prom-goers, but they never hatched in the nursery. The ribald damnation was on time for every match, whereas the dowager slept on the roof of the house like Snoopy. As Snoopy did in the failed event.
He always slept on his stomach. He couldn't sleep on his back. It must have been the way his mother lay him down when he was a baby. She must have always lay him down on his stomach, so he got used to sleeping on his stomach, and now that he's much older, he can't help but to continue to do what he did when he was a baby. His wife, however, wants him to sleep on his back. She wants him to sleep on his back because she sleeps on her back, and she wants him to do what she does. If he does what she does--she reasons--then they will do more things together. As it is now, they do not do enough together, she thinks. She thinks that, and she says it. She wants him to sleep on his back. He tries to sleep on his back but doesn't have much luck. She wants him to sleep on his back. Most nights, he starts out sleeping on his back, but then, sometime in the night, he rolls onto his stomach. His wife wakes him up late at night. She is angry that he's on his stomach. But I tried to sleep on my back, he tells her. I must have fallen asleep on my back, he tells her, but I cannot help that I move to my stomach in the night. One night. There comes a night in which she wakes up late and finds her husband sleeping on his stomach. She rolls him onto his back, and he doesn't wake up, though he seems to stir. He begins to surface out of his sleep. He is on his back. She takes two long needles and plunges them through his eyelids and into his eyes. She still holds onto the ends of these needles. She takes these ends and jerks them around so that she rips apart his eyes. He wakes up but cannot open his eyes. There is much shock in him.
The hackles on a dog. The organism is alive. We thought it was dead. The fraud wears yellow pants. When the toady promised to pull me out of the river, I didn't believe him. Her heart quaked. He grew his beard so long he could tie it around his neck. He said it was a natural defense. He grew his beard so long he could tie it around his neck. It was so long. It was thick. If someone were to try to cut his throat, it wouldn't work because of his beard. If someone were to try to hang him by his neck, it wouldn't work because his beard would serve as a buffer--a pillow--against the noose, the anondyne necklace. My grandmother must have used ether as an anesthetic. She must have killed my father's python. Built a fine lover in the very old cathedral next to the new vagabond mercurial fantasy in the doggerel forewarned fisticuffs dangerous this time of year if you don't lull it to breach the breach we shared the fact that we breached together. To get her. To get him. Togethim. We were finally togethim.
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