I wander when I read and stop for a few minutes to think about other things. Important only to me. Things I should be doing to live up to my own responsible self-image: organize, get insurances and licenses, search for proof that I am a vaccinated member of society. I will not die like the Indians when exposed. I am so tired of sitting and driving, I’m going to walk for weeks. There is a tent pitched among the boxes in my living room, which I cleaned at a car wash to ensure there would be no dirt and plant bits. The decadent rooms I stayed in had far more furniture than my entire apartment. I need another bookcase. A jacuzzi was nice. I wanted a shower. All of the things I prefer to do and have done while standing or perhaps forcefully kneeling, as if I prepare to make a quick getaway. Looking out the window, I rub my cock beneath my shorts, like an innocent child absent-mindedly exploring his genitals. It always gets hard and then there is nothing innocent about what I do, or completely innocent and natural, depending on my point of view. I see many of them before I decide.
This writing wears me out. This interest in me, it wears me out, and I read some more.