I SAW A MAN WITH DOWN'S SYNDROME AT THE STORE AND I FELT BAD by Sam Pink

I SAW A MAN WITH DOWN'S SYNDROME AT THE STORE AND I FELT BAD

by Sam Pink



Time is recurring terror.



There is no night and day there are only small naps.



There is no way to understand anything there are only nods.



There is no holding hands there is only making sure the other one doesn’t run.



There is no idea there is only saying something one of us already said but forgot about.



There are no naps there are only blinks.



There are no blinks there are only small rips in sight.



There is no fun there is only me not saying anything.



There is no floor there is only feeling like you can’t go below where you’re at.



There is no washer and dryer in my apartment building and that sucks fucking balls.



There are no fingers there are only smaller pieces of your arm.



There are no arms there is only your body trying to expand without your permission.



Being dead will be the easiest thing I do. I am not accomplishing anything; my feet are shovels.





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