What’s with the title?

It is what it is I say: reality and its finest taste: all the things, and all that other things, and all the way up to the point of now, the point of no point, a circle of smoke, quietly leaving the space between, so it’s just us, and the smiles, and the same old sun-baked deadness of the city murmur.

I like little boys. Oh yeah. I like to sit by the schoolyard and watch them play. I like to watch little boys. I follow them around sometimes. Little boys turn me on. I sometimes wanna grab one by the hand and take him to the woods, and just show him all those, plants. “Look, little boy. This plant is a hundred feet tall. And this plant, you can barely see it. Look, how ugly this one is. And look at that beautiful flower over there. But no matter how different these plants are from each other, little boy, they’re all called plants. Look little boy, this one is called oak. And all those over there are oaks. And no matter how different they are from each other, each one of them is called oak. And the tragedy of it, little boy, is that you don’t see the tragedy of it.”

Soon, little boy, you won’t be a little boy no more, a little dreamer. You will be somewhere, on some funeral maybe, that you didn’t really feel like going to. But you will be there, walkin, caught in the net of those walkin with you. You’ll be taught some manners, they’ll put some flowers in your hand, and you will walk slowly, just the way you should: one foot, at least, always on the ground. And it will be a long way to walk, little boy, but you will get there, trust me, if you just don’t let yourself fly away. And by the time you get there, you won’t feel nuttin about the poor soul, so you will put on that fake, and put those flowers down, and pretend you didn’t notice your name by the grave.

It’s so hard to be a woman in this pedophile game. I wanna have a dick, a tiny little one, to feel the warmth of little boys.

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