Burnt salty pumpkin seeds

The press of the binder sends cold into me. By an egg timer, the
electricity comes back on. The shadows see me. I'm in the afterthrows -
the secondary sex pangs - after masturbation. I want dead weight
between my legs. "Passion". "Feeling". "Touch". It's all betraying,
fleeting. Men and their guns. Oh, they're all the same. Some are more
sensationalist than others, yet that urge propels them all. My leap
from the bed is a monster. I scare the dog downstairs and break a few
strings. I heard the phone ring. This might be being taped. I see mild
film introduction themes behind the steps as I walk downstairs.

I carry the binder. "It's me. I miss you". Nice. I miss all my friends.
Let's get out the calendar and take a nap on it, shall we? Bad
propositions and sound judgment await after the early foghorn sex
noises. Ooo, aaa.