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I can hear my beautiful neighbor showing her apartment off. Probably a sublet situation. Everytime she passes I hear her say, they have a dog that is super quiet.

Today’s goal is the appeasing of my personal flow rather than the resisting of it. It’s important for me to get my mood up. I can get up if I want or I can stay seated. I can move or I can stay. I can get in the shower or play Destiny. I am a free boy.

My phone plops. It’s the library telling me that they have the original Blade Runner available for download.

Send it my way, I say.

I really want the Subterraneans. Because I’m feeling like old Kerouac in a bunch of new Warhols. But who knows? Maybe I’m at my best. Maybe I’m just getting started. The downfall of ello has really gotten to me, even if it’s just the downfall of me. This multiplicity of social networks or the multiplicity of the self is painful. I’m sure on both our ends. Don’t let me speak for you though.

I’m doing the laundry as a means of aneurysm prevention. One after another, the articles of clothing are picked off the dog kennel.

There is a bowl with disgusting old milk in it next to my desk. It used to have a lot more raisin bran in it than it does now. And it didn’t used to smell as bad as it does now.

I take the bowl to the kitchen along with a bowl which used to have more Cocoa Pebbles in it than it does now.

I can’t get the same feeling on Twitter as I do here. There’s so much talent there. Everyone in the world seems to have it. It’s hard to feel like you’re anything when you call yourself a writer when everyone is one. That being said, is the novel dead? What about the blog? Is ello dead?

I thought for sure I was made for this world but I don’t feel like I belong anywhere anymore.

I’m trying not to be a burden on my friends. Is the story over? Have I’ve overstayed my welcome?

Come back when you’ve got something new for us, I hear them say. I don’t know what they’re looking for and I don’t know if I’m the person to give it to them. How can they trust me? I tell them to follow their gut but look at all the good it’s done me.

I still have little visions though. Pointing someone’s browser at my url and watching their eyes light up as they roll over my sentences. That’s what I’ll do when I’m a ghost. I’ll float around waiting for someone to stumble onto my remains and gather up my soul.

That’s where I’ll be. Somewhere in your shadow emboldening you.

I couldn’t figure it out, how I had been surviving? How am I still not completely engulfed. You know, it was a real block in my narrative. But it’s all starting to make sense. There’s only one way. I must have more poison in my system than I had originally thought. A double dose. That stab in the back must have had more oomph than I’d realized. Really threw me into a funk. Only one way to neutralize all that @gunk. Pour salt it in the wound. Give it all you’ve got. Just keep going.

(give them what they want) + (give them what they want) = (success!)

Can I save the homefront in the homestretch? I told you all I would. Do I even want to? Have you asked yourself is that even what I want?

What kills you makes you stronger, right?

I’ve been napping which has been sucking me through and around multitude worlds. Like, I wake up and don’t know what time or day it is. I don’t know which side of the bed I’m on. And then I go back to sleep. Flashing in and out like this, trying to adjust to the new morning shift mentality.

Accept sleep loss forever.

I’m watching what’s going on on Twitter. Studying. Not to imitate but appropriate. Fascinated by the way some of the users can make little packages of the character count, collecting my favs.

An accident takes place outside my window. What does it mean?

I guess it’s time to take the dog out even though I could sleep longer.

Looking at my two pairs of shorts from afar, it’s difficult to remember which ones are my favorite. I end up choosing the ones with the longer legs, which is the correct choice.

Leashing the dog, I hear a noise in the hall. I sit back down at my computer, pretending to send another tweet. After five minutes, I go out, not running into any of my neighbors.

There’s a policeman asking somebody on the street who was involved in the accident. I pull Charlo past his usual pee spot because it’s right next to one of the cars.

Were you involved in the accident? asks the officer to the man in the car.

Do you need medical attention?

The phrase stress less home medical fee coverage burns into my mind.

Some days I’m everywhere. Some days I am nowhere. There is no food in the apartment. It’s 3 PM. I signed up to be on a television show about psychics.

I’m a twenty-eight year old, writer living in Brooklyn who recently lost his job and has a wife wanting to get pregnant.

That’s what I told them.

The pay is a hundred dollars.


My current theme song plays again as I’m stretching from sheets of salt.

It looks like a statue, I tell Piper, standing naked, hungry, afraid, panicking.

What would you do?

Everything being a learning experience, shrugging off the pressure and guilt, searching for some clothes within a made up bed.

I accidentally use Musette’s towel, thinking that it’s mine because it is mine, she is just using it because she didn’t have any clean ones when the one that she was using went dirty.

We’re dealing in an arena of energy consumption, I tell Grady.

Lilli… I say, but she is not here.

Grady, get me my tequila please.

It’s straight blanco. All of the reposado is gone.

This is nightmarish. I should be sleeping now.

Sleep is the closest thing I’ve got to death.

Death is the feast of the poor.

I take a drink.

On second thought, it’s not half bad.

I could get used to this.

There’s not enough bottles left for much getting used to, says Grady.

Smoke em while you’ve got em’s what I always say, remembering the bag of Drum in my desk drawer.

I wish I had a secret exit to go smoke from. A balcony would be nice. I wish I was in France. I felt like I could smoke in France. I did smoke there. In the apartment, out the window. Staring over the Parisian landscape. Lightning striking over the tops of apartments. Artists living in the building, doing nothing but art.

Let me be. Give me food. Somebody give me food. Who will give me a hundred a week? It’s a small fare but my wife would be happy. Who are the @ellomillionaires? Why couldn’t they love me? Support me from afar? You give me a hundred dollars a week and I’ll save your little site. It’s what I do. They call me the social network whisperer. Fugue State Press for short.

I wake up with a headache that creeps towards my stomach in the form of nausea. It might be all of the mobile tweet notifications I’m receiving or it might be a hangover from all of the tequila blanco that I drank last night. It’s later in the day than I want it to be. Two pm. I’m supposed to be getting on Musette’s schedule but I’m lagging behind, staying up late, unable to sleep,

I’m supposed to be having coffee but the stove is probably not on.

There is a job on Craigslist that I apply for. The application process involves calling businesses and setting up appointments. I can’t believe it. My actual phone? My actual number? I remind myself that I am an agent. These are cases. Assigned from Craig who might be Lestrade’s new name. Or the bringer of cases. You know though, Craigslist.

It takes me a while to build up the courage to make the call, and when I finally do, I give my entire actual name and my wife’s, telling the lady on the line that my wife has a bad back from being hit by a truck which is sort of true.

I’m supposed to be looking into getting a walk-in bathtub.

When did I become such a nervous person? I ask myself.

The appointment is scheduled for Thursday. The agent gives me the name of the person who will be coming to my place. I have given a false address and told the agent to have her representative look for a yellow house.

I had to tell her that I am a homeowner. It was part of the mission requirements.

This is the report I write:

The agent, H. was very friendly. She expressed sympathy towards my wife’s condition, whom I said had a bad back. She seemed to have difficulty comprehending my name and the spelling of my street address.

She had what I believe is an Indian accent.

I was told there is an open shelf regarding prices of bathtubs. And H. gave me information on some of the features I might like as they specifically applied to my wife’s situation, letting me know that each tub is customized to the individual.

She set a date for the appointment and gave me the name of the person that would be coming to do the consultation and after the call ended she called me back, multiple times as I did not answer on the first call. When I finally answered, H. told me that the date needed to shift because of scheduling conflicts.

After I filed my report I attempted to call the next number, but it did not work. It was for the installation of a home security system.

I told my representative that I am more than happy to do another call.

The time of my first call was twelve minutes and forty five seconds.

I can hear my beautiful neighbor out in the hall showing the apartment off. I’m assuming it’s a sublet situation. Everytime she passes I hear her say, they have a dog that is super quiet.

I am trying to spend today appeasing my personal flow rather than resisting it. I have to get my mood up. I can get up if I want or I can stay seated. I can move or I can stay. I can get in the shower or play Destiny. I am a free boy.

My phone plops. It’s the library telling me that they have what is the original Blade Runner available for download.

Send it my way, I say.

I really want the Subterraneans. Because I’m feeling like old Kerouac in a bunch of new Warhols. But who knows? Maybe I’m at my best. Maybe I’m just getting started. The downfall of ello has really gotten to me, even if it’s just the downfall of me. This multiplicity of social networks or the multiplicity of the self is painful. I’m sure on both our ends. Don’t let me speak for you though.     

I’m doing the laundry as a means of aneurysm prevention. One after another, the articles of clothing are picked off of the dog kennel.

There is a bowl with disgusting looking old milk in it next to my desk. It used to have a lot more raisin bran in it than it does now. And it didn’t used to smell as bad as it does now.

I take the bowl to the kitchen along with a bowl which used to have more Cocoa Pebbles in it than it does now which was sitting on my dresser.

I can’t get the same feeling on Twitter as I do here. There’s so much talent there. Everyone in the world seems to have it. It’s hard to feel like you’re anything when you call yourself a writer when everyone is one. That being said, is the novel dead. What about the blog? Is ello dead?

I thought for sure I was made for this world but I don’t feel like I belong anywhere anymore.

I’m trying not to be a burden on my friends. Is the story over? Have I’ve overstayed my welcome?

Come back when you’ve got something new for us, I hear them say. I don’t know what they’re looking for and I don’t know if I’m the person to give it to them. How can they trust me? I tell them to follow their gut but look at all the good it’s done me.

I still have little visions though. Pointing someone’s browser at my url and watching their eyes light up as they roll over my sentences. That’s what I’ll do when I’m a ghost. I’ll float around waiting for someone to stumble onto my remains and gather up my soul.

That’s where I’ll be. Somewhere in your shadow emboldening you.

I couldn’t figure it out, how I had been surviving? How am I still not completely engulfed. You know, it was a real block in my narrative. But it’s all starting to make sense. There’s only one way. I must have more poison in my system than I had originally thought. A double dose. That stab in the back must have had more oomph than I’d realized. Really threw me into a funk. Only one way to neutralize all that @gunk. Pour salt it in the wound. Give it all you’ve got. Just keep going.

(give them what they want) + (give them what they want) = (success!)

Can I save the homefront in the homestretch? I told you all I would. Do I even want to? Have you asked yourself that? Is this what I want?

What kills you makes you stronger, right?

My two best shirts are in that plastic bag next to the hamper. I don’t know what I will wear my tie with when the time comes for being really Deckard like.

The shirt that my dad got me is so tight.

I’ve got to feel good to look good.

I’m in my bathrobe at the moment.

I guess I look good, in a pipe smoking post-shower sort of way.

Yuja Wang’s Tchaikovsky 1 rolls me into Destiny but that only lasts for a round because there is a headache crawling somewhere around the crook in my neck making my cracklespot tingle.

I’m not inspired on ello, so I’m just letting that astral projection sit there, hands in the feed. A good morning to a good day. One case requested. La Damma Rossa Uccide Sette Volte.

Still no response from the pipe place.

No other interesting cases. The Reallife house is dark.  

I want the case file on The Subterraneans but am given 1q84.

I don’t know how this is going to help me, I tell the librarian.

She just shrugs her mouth.

Shiran Wang is playing Beethoven 5 on screen. She looks like a princess and I hope that the Lord will transform me into looking the part of prince knight I play one day or perhaps even the golden king at that point.

Leora is asleep on the couch. The lights are off and Paul is topless on the computer.

Shiran Wang sends the symphonic ship again sailing as I turn the shower on with John Coltrane.

You want to be ready at all times once you start sending case requests out, I say.

Good morning, I tell them, raising my head from the shatter blasted sand, my eyeballs fetching forward through the window like it’s a massive screensaver. A window a little further to the left of the one I usually look through hosts a shirtless person walking around in white shorts making it quite unclear as to whether they are a woman or a man.

The man across the way walks into view.

I’m here too, he says with his fat wife beaten stomach.

Of course you are.

Tell my Twitter followers hello for me, I tell my phone which shoots the message through the void and into the feeds of probably none of the people I’m actually looking to be friends with.

Lestrade’s knocking, reminding me to put my papers in and get out from behind the desk.

Show me available cases in New York City, I tell Google.

She opens Craigslist. It’s full of the usual suspects. Kitchen positions and tutoring jobs. However, one case catches my eye. A pipe shop. Looking for a writer and associate. I have my associate’s degree in the fact that I went to nationals for DECCA in high school in the category of retail sales associate.

My writing speaks for itself, but I’m not going to link to my WordPress in the resume.  

They want me to write reviews on some of their products so that they can see my writing skills. I tell them that I looked for the Kind Pen but couldn’t find it.

I submit a case request.