Lifting the can did not produce the lip.
Upon further inspection, I found the lid laying on my
telephone.
Fuck, I write weird stuff when drunk. Is this how Bukowski wrote?
Damn Bukowski, anyway, for being famous instead of me.
Bukowski is dead, though. Fat lot of good his fame did him.
Fuck all that anyway. Fame means nothing without love.
Although perhaps I'd think differently if I wasn't so lonely.
The problem is, of course, that one cannot be depressed all of the time.
And when happiness comes, all of the previous pain makes no sense.
Pain, in the face of happiness, is a distant shadow.
Then again, the same is true of happiness in the face of pain.
And yes, I'm drunk.
Only mildly drunk this time. I had forgotten about this lovely dialogue.
This can't be significant -- I wrote it using Windows Notepad.
Nothing of significance will ever be created using Windows Notepad.