Oct. 15, 2003 @ 10:01 p.m.

My lips are as chapped as an Oklahoma riverbed’s mud, cracking and splintering as if they were a piece of broken wood that had been run over by weather’s semi truck weighing in at a couple thousand tons. My tongue licks at the cracks like a dog tending to wounds. I have always been curious what that instinct must provide in terms of taste and maybe this is my only taste of relation to such a habit. The hollow hunger sounds in my stomach so loudly that there must be a concert going on inside of my stomach, with dancing and head-bobbing little people, who are slowly losing their hearing over something they love. But at the same time as I swallow, the spit from my mouth slides down the back of my throat, hitting the inside of my foodless belly with a splash of hollowness. Sounding just like the annoying class clown who used to make water-dripping sounds and look around like no one knew he had done it. My insides may be hollow from monetary neglection, leading to the lack of sufficient food input, but they gleam like freshly baked Krispy Kreme donuts on the freshly baked rack. Smiling for someone to buy them as if they’re trashed existence was like going to Hell and being eaten was getting to Heaven, like in some strange cult-like religion. So, buy into my smile too, because for just an instant, it’s real.