Of course I don't believe that shrink's growth of lies. @joymotel 2232 Damen Blvd., past the razorroad tracks, its absinthe to tell a lie
And I've been paying weekly since weekly sins tell a tall tales shrink think tank? @joymotel=Manhattan Project 2.0 the new millennium, maybe?
One would think everything had spell check in the future, Kindred mumbled,not know what he created his thoughts with, footfalls/door knocks.
there was a false rhyme w/ Goethe & birthday, another w/ orange & syringe, but my birthday balloon was red when docdad pressed the button GO
BOOM, Kindred slept, wavering between then & yet, Mac the Rant woke him w/ a song about Br3ndaBot, a clue? False rhyme for you are socks.
Psychdaddy (cell): how did you pronounce that name? Kindred (in Tourette's): Which? M@ntell? Culhane (same): Talking too much, you are.
And she wanted to know your AGE? from the doc, Culhane fidgety. I told him, look, hands wide, I know I'm 56 but I think I'm 1968. Doc nods.
Can I add something?: a boxy shadow by the wall. Sure, I redacted. 1100011010010101010wder your face with sunshine. Jukebox not real, is it?
Tonal tonsils warble tang mac the rant so sacrosanct sid skin's salty salad seed broken shadowed box juked, stop the slipstream now said doc
cracked and ratcheted jacket juke duku duke duke of urls urls urls oh yea what a wunderful urll0l0l0olol LOL lozenges will take care of it.
Kindred's paper extracted from the crack inside his closet ceiling. Edges worn from constant handling, checking and rechecking. Obsessive.
A list of psychdaddy's sizes. Shoes, 12D. Belt, 36. Shirt, XL, 17 inch neck. Pants, 34 inch inseam. Jacket 44L. Hat 17 and a half inches.
Kindred in psychdaddy's room, 3:32 AM. Snoring from the bed. Kindred slides a shirt from a hanger and tries it on. Perfect fit, sleeves.
Docdad rolls over. Kindred freezes, balancing on one leg, pants halfway up his thigh. false alarm. He pulls them up. Like custom-made.
The shoes fit comfortably. Kindred tiptoes around on the orange shag carpet, trying them out. Even his baby toe is snug as a bug in a rug.
The belt, the third hole worn. That's the one docdad uses. Kindred uses it too. The hat fits just so. Amazing, thinks Kindred, big-headedly.
Every piece of clothing in psychdaddys's closet fits Kindred as if a tailor from Turin has made it from the finest materials just for him.
Kindred sits down on the edge of docdad's bed. He can hear him breathing. Kindred slides under the covers and reaches across the sheets.
Docdad is not there. Kindred is alone in the bed. After a few moments, he becomes aware of his own breathing. It sounds like docdad's.
Kindred blinks, the light from the bathroom leaking under the closed door, exactly as he left it after his shower. Is he in docdad's room?
Kindred gets out of bed and stands in front of the mirror. Psychdaddy gazes back at him, streaked in the halflight of neon spilling in.
Kindred extends a fingertip and touches the mirror. There is no mirror there. He taps the plaster wall and light dust falls like dandruff.