THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 29 "Stroke"

Today's a good day for death. Not that Im dying, or rather, dying quickly. There's just been a lot of permutations of death in this day, thus far. Near death in the story. Actually death in a different short story I am forced to read which was written by a classmate. The death of literature and good taste brought on by the latter of those stories. The inevitable second death when people praise that rancid shit. And, yet again, when it more than likely becomes published in some format, gets famous, makes money. When that day comes it too will be a good day for death. All the suicides by those with taste will see to that. Dying in the literature, winter's dead, the sun is dying, ozone trees copper, someone somewhere, an animal's probably being run over right now. A stabbing here, a stabbing there, a stabbing in a another other text, both literal and figurative. Im seeing death everywhere. Hell, why not. Why not embrace the on slot of death symbols? It's everywhere, unavoidable so why not have death on the mind. Why not? Why not. -- Jamie's in the city of Rococo, crying. He found his way there from Houston, where the streets are paved with assholes and the buildings out of cocks and pussies. Dont worry, most cities are, every city is. Austin, Topeka, Portland, San Fran, New York, any city you can name it as orgy of fuck and fucks not given. Except Rococo. And maybe Baltimore. Maybe. Jamie wandered in the city of smears like everyone else, with tears in their eyes. A throat parched of something that cant be drank. The street lights vigil to his dreary shuffle, he'd found the place that'd be his tomb. The city never lets go, not matter how long, far.The darkness has flashing behind the buildings, down the alleys, in the abandoned hotel rooms. It felt like home. He missed his pup, missed his home, he thinks. Jamie cant be sure. What was home? Where was it? Who how were what will when went where was wont will not may may not, Jamie's mind churned up any word that could stand on its own as a question to knock them down without an answer. The loud scream of a car horn clipped his arm. he didnt really care. The pain felt nice in his arm, felt agonizing nice. Jamie found himself looking over a river, on a high bridge. The water was black. He stared to cry when he noticed. My arm's broken, he thought, shit. He got over the rails as best he could. There was the slightest edge, the lip of a precipice. Below: the water. The wind howled. The cars screeched. Rococo moaned. Jamie stared down at the water for a long time then turned his eyes up, tears leaking out like a busted levee. Distantly he heard.
The moon was waxing gibbous. The stars were twinkling, indifferent to him, to us, only concerned with their own burning. Jamie stared at the horizon, at the river stretching back for-what-seemed-ever. Jamie listened to the wind whipping around his ears.