Sam Pink: Person

She fixes her glasses and walks past me, looking at the books.

I wonder if she is thinking about having sex with me.

Am I standing naked before her in her thoughts.

What is she imagining.

Am I at least present in her imagination at all.

I want to watch the imagination.

What do I look like to her.

Do I have coins taped to my stomach.

If I do, why do I have coins taped to my stomach.

That seems wrong.

I check my stomach with my hand and there is nothing there but some hair.

I say nothing to the girl as she passes.

She just passes.

And I’m intentionally looking away.

She looks at the books and I am roughly equivalent to any other inessential part of the room to her, like a corner or a tile.

I buy a low-priced copy of a book written by Karl Jaspers and then I leave the store.

When I leave I act like I am looking at something on the wall, just beyond the register.

I don’t know why I act like I’m looking at something, but I know it’s intentional.

I can feel that it is intentional.

A lot of times my behavior is the reaction to what I think other people are observing about me, and so yes, I am uncomfortable a lot (haha).

Outside the store on the building next door there is an advertisement for clothing.

A girl lies on a bed looking like she is dying or has some kind of sickness but still wants to fuck and the name of the brand of clothing is on the bottom of the advertisement.

I think, “So what.”

I see a candybar wrapper on the ground.

I think, “So what.”

Then I walk in the same direction as before.

It feels like practice.

I only cry like once a year now.

If I had a bar graph, I’m confident it would confirm this.

The right-now me only cries once a year I mean.

And it’s hard to tell if I ever cry specifically about the thing happening or just because it is needed at that time.

It’s insane.

I take an alleyway between two buildings.

Alleyways between buildings are some of my favorite places to be walking.

There seem to be no spiderwebs now.

And I remember that’s because it’s winter and some things go away and/or die.

What happens to the spiders in the winter.

I have the urge to drop from the sky and scream, “What happens to the spiders in the winter.”

There’s a crown spraypainted on the side of a building, and there are numbers over each spike of the crown.

And as I pass by a dumpster, I realize every specific thing I worry about is nothing compared to the main worry I have which never has an object.

The idea of haha goes into my headhole and I almost laugh but I don’t because at the other end of the alley there are people smoking cigarettes outside a bar.

And it feels like everyone is looking at me, even people in cars at stoplights.

I only laugh like once a year now.

And I realize that there is nothing to worry about without first

wanting to be alive a certain way.

That is somewhat relaxing to think.

If I accept whatever I get, exerting no energy for its arrival and none for its refusal, I will be happy or at least ok.

So weak.

It occurs to me I might never laugh again.

It seems possible, and also likely.

That could happen.

I accept that.

Both of my feet are cold through the shitty boots I’m wearing and I like the way the snow is coming down more now; there is maybe a few inches on the sidewalk area.

I imagine a man coming out of an alley and stabbing me a number of times until I die.

Face-down, mouth-open in the snow.

What would that change about me.

Would I love it.

Would I think that the stabbing was painful and that I didn’t like it.

Does it actually hurt or is it great.

I see my killer being given a wreath and a box of candy by the mayor of Chicago at some kind of ceremony (a ceremony for killing me, you see).

And people are cheering for him.

I see myself stab-holed and crawling out of an alley to join the periphery of the celebration.

Then I hold one hand over the stab wounds and with the other hand I give the thumbs-up sign to my killer as he accepts the wreath from the mayor.

I pass more people who are out walking.

I’m on Ashland Avenue.

A lot of times when I encounter someone else out walking or running past me, it feels like we should be more united than we end up acting.

We’re both outside at the same time together.

Why doesn’t that mean anything to anyone.

Goddamn.

No, I don’t think I actually care about that.

I thought I cared about it just now.

The word “phew” scrolls through my head in neon letters.

I feel like my eyes look really wild right now.

It’s possible I have a fever.

On my side of the street there’s a cop wagon with two cops inside.

Chicago Police.

The Chicago Police Department.

And I just barely resist the urge to jump and scream at the window of the cop wagon.

That would be funny and I don’t think I would get arrested (not sure though).

In resisting the urge I feel something like a rush of energy through my heart-area.

Man Arrested for Surprising Chicago Police Then Slipping on Ice and Dying — Cries Wildly.

I consider walking to Lake Michigan again, this time taking my clothes off and getting in until I die.

That would work (almost sure).

I would die from that.

I’d be completely invisible in the snow and gray water and I would die from freezing.

That would work.

Plus I don’t think it would be a bad way to die actually.

I don’t think that would be bad.

There are usually a lot of ducks (?) geese (?) by Lake Michigan and I think it would be nice to slowly lose consciousness while they stared at me.

What would that change about their lives.

Would it cause anything new in their lives.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter.

Why can’t I just walk up to some people and say, “Can I spend time with you, I’m really—” and then stop.

I think about people I used to know and I wonder if any one of them is thinking about me at this moment.

That is possible.

That could be happening.

What happens when you are thinking about a person at the same time he or she is thinking about you.

I see myself before all the people I used to know, them forming a line.

I see myself greeting them each, one by one, and saying, “I really am a good person. Are we good, are me and you good.”

Wrigley Field Baseball Park comes up on my right side now.

I look at the l/e/d sign out front and I expect scrolling letters to write, “Nobody likes you and you don’t have a home — people just

tolerate you.”

For some reason then I imagine an old newscaster in front of a big microphone going, “This just in, nobody likes you. They just tolerate you.”

I don’t think I would react in a shocked way if I saw that.

I would accept it.

Right now I’m hungry.

I feel hunger.

A weird noise happens in my stomach and I feel bad.

The noise my stomach just made is (probably) the same like a young dinosaur telling its mother it needs food.

I consider starving to death on purpose.

Maybe I should do that.

Starving to death on purpose seems awesome to do in North America.

It would be something that people would remember.

I would be remembered as the man who purposely starved to death in North America.

The man whose stomach made those bad baby dinosaur sounds until death.

Man Found Starved, Believed Relative of a Baby Dinosaur.

I pass by a liquor store and go inside.

It smells like my closet inside.

I like it.

No one’s in the store.