Chee boy vibe

Ms. Rhythm's dead, so I celebrate, I order up an ice cream cake - freshly chiffoned with sugar cream, spelling words that Zarathustra spake. You could pick it up, if you don't mind, three business days from now, the cashier tells me on the phone as I milk a mental cow. I have a coat that's smooth and grey, as my head will one day be. I need to walk outside sometimes just to have nothing to see. Talk to strangers at the bus shelter, ask to squeeze politely by--each trip upon the streetcars has me drinking bottled sighs--and commiserate telepathically while staring at the sky. I walk into an LCBO, they've got pretty good customer service--but middle-aged cashiers on Friday night can make a sober man feel nervous. Then I duck into an alleyway just to photograph graffiti. No one remembers hidden things; it's no wonder why we're needy.

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