Eight. Ninety. Impossible to believe without substantiation. Twenty. Twelve. Dragging ass through the field, heading to work. Is that you, Mo-dean? Sinking upward into a field of stars. Eleven unquestionably. So this advice we now must give: the father must die so the child may live. Four? Sixteen? Seven? Orderliness requires a full rethink. Arriving at work to find the doors already closed and the lock stuffed with chewing gum, he reached into the left pocket of his jacket, which was the same brown color as the dead grass that ringed the building, took out his phone, and called home, knowing she wouldn't answer. A motley of other numbers tumbled incapably from an upper window.
@2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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