Sundays #55

I hated Sunday afternoons and the dead pallidness of unchallenged routine and the catholic guilt and magazines and American films drenched in American emotions that fill the void of intellect with pale blue plaid skirts and football players who date, but wait: “there’s someone else”,  and then she cries and we cry too at how pathetic our lives have become and then she stepped into my life and was one of those people who made these emotions matter and then there I was watching myself on Sunday afternoons sobbing at my character as he drinks and lifts up the plaid blue skirts and slides his hand between her legs and tries to fuck the actress to make the director shout ‘CUT!’ to free himself from the drama, but he lets the cameras roll because he doesn’t want it to end, he can’t make the day end.


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