sitting down the reporter fumbles with a small digital recorder in his laptop bag and pulls out the usual "investigator things" paper, pens and a bunch of shit I don't really care about ..at this point im tired and just have the person there Incase ...(the thought isn't going to let me finish itself. as if it too is Leary of all things now.) "accounting of one self is relevant" I hear it say without a word. it sounded or described itself to sound like its coming from a dark place metal and without escape. I look around the room I'm hosting this mess in. I'm sure it's going to go exactly like it always does.. with nothing happening and my life ...surmounting to a collection of words, in a word. mumblings of a crazy guy if ever found in 50 years. I'm smoking looking through eyes I dispise ...I hate being here. hate it. I hate the pain it caused for me to come again. the emotion I cannot handle. the un regimented style of life I don't care for, the military is all but this guy's last..and he hasn't done shit. I got shit on for it. "hurry up guy, the point is i want u to know this .." puff the cigarette. the smoke burn the eye but just one. (the right one) I ain't alone, this is a fucking mess and yet again ..again.. fucking look at em. well ....(I stare at the visual of him in the mind, so much fucking going on, 1st why the fuck is it dark? second, what's the fuck happened? and Why is it so disorganized and dishelved
, it embarrassing to see the trash and shit everywhere in the apartment. not even I'm able to think clearly about what to say just that I'm doing it..."ok I'm ready!" "about fucking Time" I reply unamused. he shruggs me off and I shift in my seat. apparently...this ...is going to blow this mother fuckers mind and I lean in to start the story.
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