Jim sat on his stoop. The gun that he bought from the Puerto Rican was in his pants. Man is it hot. The tar in the street was sticky and the air was humid and added to his confused state, the confusion of his simple mind, the hot whips of panic that made him feel insecure and violated as events slipped precipitously from his control as his instinct accelerated without purpose, speeding like an insane poem written in a fever dream, his thousand little malignant thoughts unrealized like paltry rain on a hot day.
Broken sunlight. Leaving this town will be easier than living in it. I feel like a man playing an out-of-tune piano through a radio. My life has said very little.