Manifesto: my masterpiece.

I could _____ you a whole list of hellos for a week and they would all stink compared to the
I only have time for this, for us, for our last goodbyes and it seems as though time is the last thing I will ever have the chance to ask you for more of. Whether we were dying, fratting, living, talking, nothing, it would all amount to less than this shitty cup of coffee and the next 1000 that will sit down beside it. All we have is our time and all that anyone could ask for is more of it. And so then there are the memoirs, the last breath of a dying poets most whimsical comedy never written. And the comedy of it is this, that the poet should die before seeing his own performance. Perhaps that is the irony of it anyway.
The irony that we have been looking for all our lives.
To define.
To memorize.
To capture once and for all.
That some things never change.
And in the most beautiful poetry I could imagine, written in the most dreadful handwriting I've ever seen
There was your soul.
Trapped in time for just this one particular insignificant second looking you back in the mirror for no good reason at all but to say that the coffee was particularly good this morning, you look like you had a fabulous night's rest, and it's nothing but another day's work until you'll be back to the same droning relentless hag of a woman that you've grown to resent, terrible malnutritious foodstuff which ought to be outright outlawed by the *USA* and your same alarm will wake you with that same shrill fucking crack that you HATE to the same sun that will rise every day, heedless of the coffee that is poured
or the innocent blood that is shed
or the countless whores sent to unseen levels of ecstasy beyond even your most feverish imaginings.
The sun is.
And there won't be a single damn thing you can do about it. I could try but it wouldn't stop the ceaseless yammering of a hemmoraging brain onto the split remnants of a tree's first hope. It's enough to bring a grown man to tears, to _____ and only you can fill in the blanks.
The story is yours to tell and yours to share and yours to sell. It's good news! It brings back youth! You will be happy again as you once were! Your friends will be begging to hear about your secret and the best part is that it's a riddle that only you know the answer to. But fortunately for you at home we have a miracle! It cam be yours. It is yours. You simply haven't realized it yet. All that is required to claim your prize is your undying loyalty to my god and my penis. Should you choose to claim this fabulous prize of immortality and happiness itself, it would seem unfitting for you to wish to keep your earthly remains of wealth tethered to you, so we will do the hard part of that for you as well! Simply sign this agreement PLEASE and commit just a single second more of your already pathetically short life to my cause and in such a way prolong my own? Share this seed of me to the four corners of the earth and all things that are not a part of me AND I SHALL TASTE IMMORTALITY AS WELL. These are my birthing rights, my earthly needs, and my dying request. Share this part of me that was pure with the world and gloss over the murkier details in between. This is between you and me and it is the holiest of covenants we could possibly create.

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