Tomorrow someone will come for me.
Or maybe not tomorrow.
Later. Who knows when?
I don’t mind waiting.
It beats doing something.
Doing has always been my undoing.
Not everyone has my peculiar sense of humor.
That too has been an impediment in my life.
Number nine out of five hundred and sixty-one.
It took me a while to count.
But I like to count.
It beats doing something.
I wouldn’t want to live again.
I didn’t even live this time.
I only blew smoke in life’s bloated face.
For once, the bastard got its just deserts.
I bet it’ll never approach again.