Germs.

I never pick a flower, probably out of some absurd obligation to not kill things that I think are beautiful. Mostly selfish, it seems.

Ran over a possum on purpose once. Sped up to hit it. Thought it may have dodged the wheels, then thump. Midway down the car, and it was gone. I don't feel bad, but I wouldn't do it again.

Put flowers in my hat sometimes. Wonky. Something people say nowadays in reference to something I don't know, or care to find out, unless it gets me a girlfriend which it won't.

In a 3 minute walk between here and there, when I'm by myself, I've written a novel. Then, I can't tell anyone. The change of scenery makes it disappear. Mediums in transition I suppose.

Suggested a guy pour some stuff on a caterpillar the other day, watching it writhe and mime screams of bloody murder I realized that it was really my doing, double. Seeded and didn't stop.

Imagining my leg is in more pain than it is, or that maybe my leg will be broken at some point in the future and I'll have a story to tell about that. It makes me famous; but I want to avoid it.