So I hit the street, and I walk the walk, with big thundering steps. I stand up straight, and I’m breathing deep, like I’m on a mission. I’m heading home, to my sanctuary, where I can unload. Brilliance is coming, I can feel it seething out my pores, vibrating, anticipating its escape. I’m gonna make some good fucking art.
I’m all set to make some good fucking art.
It’s all aligned to make some good fucking art.
And like an orgasm that slips away in the final moments, like the race you only barely lost, like the 7-10 split you only missed by an inch.
An INCH. A FUCKING INCH.
And then the pro shop guy, the vietnamese guy, who you had to ask your dad if it was ok to like because he’d talked so much shit about the war.. who points out that this much >< is the same as this much > < And like Mc Hammer, who you had to ask your dad if it was ok to like because he was black when you finally saw his album cover on that cassette.. CASSETTE. Fucking racist. It slips away. Falls away. Something you never really had in the first place falls away. And all you're left with.. Is yourself.