My friend Roosevelt.
Froggie was the endearing name given to him.
Didn't know what to do when his cotton eyes began to peel.
Helpless, I was, wishing I had watched the hand of my mother as she deftly slid the cloth beneath the tireless stabbing needle of the sewing machine.
I miserably witnesses the end of my dear Roosevelt's sight.
Someone behind me is taking pictures of another person.
Photography is a funny thing in that everyone within this Gibson reality confidently pursues it until their gallery laden with narcissistic images contains the inevitable gooey faced baby. Tribal inked arm crooked around protruding belly, drawing her near. The misspelled pet names that adorn the beefy wrist mere nostalgic plaques commemorating a love treaty that ended in a memorable domestic dispute. Enter banal rote, exit youthful whimsy, the horrific suspicions of all have now been confirmed. No! Turns out he was the killer after all.
I'm now playing with myself in public.
the people run screaming.