books of girls.

he hunched over the wheel, biting his teeth, laughing between pills of smoke and movement, the jolting lull of traffic, sunshine and neck lines. somewhere near the driving mirror, a spider pierced his metal skin. there were always spiders. two new books pressed to the passenger seat, a clean tribute amongst junk and visions of himself, where, he held a conversation, one that no longer quite existed. but he was nervous and happy and violent, like the strange taste of old stamps, the touch of wet grass.

Catcher In The Rye...I'm very selective. You're pretty (I'd never say that.) You are right, Maybe it was a desperate ploy. Ha ha ha. the crunch of white lines, could have been whole birds, small people who would disappear and ease his actions.

Maybe I will buy this, It seems strange. he had bought them, running fingers across the covers, moving the afternoon before him. he could taste things he didn't understand and it was exciting.

he spoke to ghosts for the rest of the day.