After my Father finished mowing the lawn, I ran outside. I walked along the tracks that the mower made, staring at the ground, careful to remain inside the lines. I pretended that I was carrying miniature people inside my body. I visualized a pilot and his crew standing behind my eyes, making sure that I stayed on course, and that all of my systems were functioning properly.

My refrigerator has stopped working. Things are rotting in there. My perishables have perished, a buffet for microorganisms. I still open my refrigerator from time to time, even though it's dead. Nervous habit. It's insides, lit with yellow light and covered with moisture, reek like the river Styx that sometimes flows between my crotch and thigh.

There is nothing more unnatural than a scrotum without hair. Sexy ... I think not, more like a soft wad of freshly chewed gum. To shave one's scrotum is to strip a lion of his mane.

Late to the office again. I have to get back to David about the Final Documents on the Peterson transaction; Richards will have my ass if that doesn't fly through Finance Committee.

To Do:

1. Follow up with David.
2. Fire Helen.
3. Lunch at Pastiche
4. Tickets to Borneo

I awaken this morning with the sun and the cocks crowing at the purple sky. The faucet is on in the bathroom. I turn it off and sit down on the toilet. I can see myself in the faucet's chrome hardware, hunched shoulders, stoic growl. I move my body to alter the shape of my reflection. It's uncanny how malleable we become, superimposed on mass-produced plumbing fixtures, mirrors into drugged out worlds and early morning thoughts. These are the every-day muses that support human introversion, echoes on bone and sinew.

I fart out a fist full of shit and again my classification is obvious, a generitype covered in geometry and equations, surrounded by sharp corners and cold tile; time will not stop for my thoughts. I turn the faucet back on so as not to interrupt the flow.