these are the dangerous thoughts that i don't want to say. but they're not about me, so i'll say them anyway. you don't want to be the role you're in, because that means that you're living in a western, two brothers, one went toward the light, and one went toward the dark...but this should come as a relief (any time any one comes it is a relief if not you need therapy and for god's sake stop it with the strangers you're only making their lives worse, selfish beasts all of you): you're not that light, and he's not that dark.  it's as complex as any modern novel, which is to say, there are those who won't even like it won't even want to listen to it won't ever take it seriously, they're the ones who don't like non-linear stories, who think metafictions are pretentious, and who like to hearken back to the way the masters did it, but here's a little clue for you all: the ones who like to hearken are all still living in phoenix (just because you are doesn't mean you belong, look, there is a whole subculture here who take it as a matter of survival or maladjustment to live here with irony, we don't mean to, we just do, our families or our bank accounts keep us here for now)....or something about heroin in the dust...? listen, there's more to it than narcotic addiction, dark tendencies toward letting one's own blood out in public, and a fierce streak toward creating something out of nothing, nihilistic artists were always so interesting, and so is your brother, and so are you, and that's why i will always love you because we are the same, we are the same, more alike than penguins even...she asks you what is your type what is the kind who is the tribe which of these are you drawn to, toward whatwhichever kind of girl kind of a girl kind of girlie girl are you compelled to cultivate in flirtations or long evenings that turn into days where no one gets out of bed? and to that you had no good answer, because the answer is always the same: who's my type? oh, my type is you, it's you, it's you, it's you...


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