All these college textbooks. All this scrap paper. All these cover letter drafts left on the floor. All these chicken scratch notes I wrote that I can't even read. This is the bedroom I used to never sleep in, just a place to store the shit I didn't need. Just a place I used to go when I had to bleed. And all of this means less than academic papers. Photocopied Derrida passages. And deconstructionism isn't really all that different from destruction. They both leave left over pieces, all of this scrap paper on the floor. My God, I tried, but I don't know what it means to be twenty-seven. I just want to be used by someone.
After coming back home, after broken bottles, after sleeping on a bike path down the street, I decided on a pantomime of someone who's okay. It had kind of worked once, back when I was wearing long-sleeved oxfords in the summer every day. Back when I was so alone, back when I was far away. And all of this means less than academic papers. Dogeared Bakhtin on the epic and the novel. And I'm not sure if there is really anything new to be said that's still worth saying. It might all be useless fragments scribbled on scrap paper.
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