he was bitchinghe couldnt
remember a time he bitched more about not wanting to playhe loved playing
it was the game
there were softfoam letters
fitted inside coloured softfoam pieces from which they had been cut-out varying sizes upper- and lower-case the letters and their cut-outs had been the
same colours but the colours somehow faded or
were heightened or either letters or forms were missing some letters warped and werent allegiant to where they originated
the other children he was supposed to play with ran away bored they left him to play by himself utterly responsible for assembling corresponding pieces
had he wanted to play he wouldnt
have minded it even if it was difficult
but he wasnt asked
he was sat down with them asif children play nicely with other children because . . well . because they are children
hows that work out with adults
they left him to pickup the game put everything back together after they
punched out separated and scattered the pieces
he arrived late
he hadnt gotten to enjoy the
dismemberment the flinging the
irresponsibleness
he was angry
the adults could make whatever excuses
they wanted to try and mollify him
They’ve gone. It’s alright, we’ll
help you.
Im not picking anything up
We’ll help you.
Im not
We’ll HELP YOU. beginning
to lose their shit
I am not picking anything up
Part
of this mess is yours. asif lowering their voices after
raising their voices would be effective
curious isnt it how dreaming and living inform and enfold and
weave and wind together and how stupid one could be if they ignored the other
for the benefit of either
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