Sharply.

When the old truck goes, and it will, as these things do, I will sell it for parts. In some few days from now, I guess, I will do the same, selling off these add-ons, these paintings that I have regaled myself with these past few months. These chrome-kits. These purple self-stick window-tints.

I will be a used car-accessory salesman. And certainly they have been used, sir! Yes, for more than bingo! Indeed, I have inhaled their soul. Sat, with razors in pocket, on their factory front seats. Leaked blood and whiskey, (too profuse?), onto their shiny hoods.

I suppose seats and hoods would not be accessories.

That aside, really, that aside, I count now three days. Then done. Three days, and then the pump gets locked. Then the paints have their tops left off, left to dry like the lowly brushes they once french-kissed, (I am drunk!). Then the painting will, (have to), be done.

I painted today, again. My nerves are exposed, and, instead of deeply, I feel everything: sharply.
The idea that feeling-so-alive might be euphoric is mythical, because, of course, alive, (here I cross myself, (do I dramatize too often?)), but, really, alive, confers all the roller-coaster fucking unpleasantness of life. I love roller-coasters, but I am too annoyed by the fucking jerking. Also tap-water running too fast. Really.

Tap. There is a tap-tap-tap outside my side-door, (have you counted the hyphens? It is my today-thing!), there is a drain-pipe, unable to deal, reasonably, with the inch-and-a-half, (three, (hyphens, but fuck it: inches too!)), of rain that has fallen these past ten hours. To my now-me, it is like the jerk of a roller-coaster, or, perhaps, the too-fast onslaught of an open tap.

But, look, I leave the door open, my friend, and I carve, to the tap-tap rhythm, these final strokes.

Tomorrow calls for more rain. I will stay inside.