David Carradine and Boxers
Okay. I clicked on like three different links and still haven’t seen a picture of the dead body. Not cool.
I just want everybody to know that it’s a joke when I talk about autoerotic asphyxiation. Auto implies I’d do it to myself, and quite frankly, I have better plans for my corpse than to be discovered naked and *alone* and dead hanging from a rope.
Also, if I hung myself as a form of suicide, I’d do it fully clothed to avoid any such implications.
This had nothing to do with boxers, but I liked the way the title sounded.
You move on, breathing, breathing, heart beating anyway.
You take a step and maybe you fall and maybe you don’t get up right away, because who can get up anyway.
You keep your eyes on the ground right in front of you because who gives a fuck about the goal, the horizon anyway.
And maybe you don’t get up right away.
You’re not dancing, you’re not running, you’re not even walking, you’re just trying to take. one.more.step.and.forget.
So maybe you don’t get up right away.
You’re thinking about forgetting and dreaming about forgetting and trying to forget and trying not to forget. This is all you have, the forgetting and the not forgetting.
And you do get up and take one more step, one more step, one more step. And after one more step you take one more step.
There’s a gleam that you see when you breathe, there’s a gleam that you’ll be when you see.
And you take one more step and you don’t have to look at the ground so you look around for the gleam that you glimpse when you breathe.
The sun rises and you see your forgetting sometimes in the shadows but you take one more step one more step.
Another breath another step another moment and you forget. You forget that you were even trying to forget. This is the way it happens, this is the way that it’s supposed to happen, the breathing and the forgetting and the moving on without you without this me him her. This is the way it’s meant to be.
