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Wednesday, December 30, 2009

The Cold

Dave: Look at you. You're sitting at your desk staring at several books. None of which you feel like reading.

Dave: Yeah, I know. I need more books. Maybe I'll go down to Rustbelt.

Dave: Have you thought about what that entails? Walking in the snowy cold?

Dave: Yeah, I know. It's pretty cold out there.

Dave: Goddamn, dude. You're getting old. Can't even walk in the snow anymore.

Dave: I can do it. It's just very very cold. The question is not one of ability. The question is one of desireability. Is my desire to not walk in the cold greater than my desire to procure more books. In fact, the more I ponder this question, the greater my desire to avoid the cold. In fact, the very act of pondering this question makes me cold.

Dave: That's just was an elderly man might say before he coughed up his last breath. Why do you think those fuckers move to Florida and Arizona. It's because they're cold. Because they're old. They're losing constitution. Just like you my old friend.

Dave: I think I'll read Dante's Inferno instead of going to Rustbelt. Maybe I'll make myself some soup.

Dave: You don't know how to make soup! You'd have to buy the soup from Top's and that entails walking in the cold, old man, shivering through to the bitter bone.

Dave: I think I'll have a nap.


  1. Is this poetry?
    Because it sounds like the conversation a pathetic boy-man would have with himself, then post to his blog because he thought it was clever


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