Jimmy Chen

I died on Tuesday and today is Saturday. Please cross out Tuesday through Saturday on my calendar, and do so in the same manner until you also die.
We named the pot roast Paul since that is good name. Paul used to be Saul (long story). We considered Paul our child as we ate it. My wife's subsequent "food coma" lasted two months, during which time I watered the mail.
The sandwiches at Chez Paul are expensive, and I cannot tell if the chairs are sculptures. Royalties are not being paid. The salad dressing reminds me of seagulls, as far as what they are capable of.
An unemployment line goes on for three blocks, at which point one will come across a hot dog vendor. Another three blocks, a dog. Another three million, a god.
Life is dust that got sprayed from a dark hole into a room. In this room, there are those who have dressed nicely, those who have dressed simply, and those who have not dressed. We call the latter apes.
My wife's "food coma" was really just disappointment. She moved to Tuscany, to find the same yellow grass she left, sending me short sentences disguised as the back of a postcard.
I found a post-it with fuck off written on it. The bright white light was as thick as mayonnaise. A decapitated man shares the form of an exclamation mark!
I worry about the mail, and the cereal, which, probably, is soggy by now.