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…..thinking about eating. I do this a lot. Food is my drug of choice. Flavors and taste, aroma, the act of chewing, masticating a cube of, say, stew meat as the tastes of the spices cross my palette. Then the willing submission of a banana, when the salivary amylases make quick work of Mother Nature’s phallus of sugar.

….thinking about my sexual need. Longing to have my prick, teased and pulled, rubbed and fondled, hardened by an all-enveloping mouth, then thrust into a wet and eager cunt.

….wondering when my wife will come home, to give her narrative of labour in the Big Red Store. She will recount the sale of disinfectant wipes and Tide© Pods.

An aside: Did you know that women once made a vaginal douche from Lysol©!? In my youth, there was a drawing of a woman in a nurse’s cap, sharing the, uh, “recipe” on a panel of the carton. I didn’t know about douching given my anatomical limitation. Still. My skin is crawling.

Another aside: The poet Vachel Lindsay committed suicide by drinking a bottle of lye. (Drano©)

… waiting for trains to pass. The Virtual Railfan microphone picks up ambient music. There is someone who likes 70’s “soft rock” music or whatever you call the musical idiom where Tony Orlando & Dawn are classified. People are walking about crossing the tracks, until the next train passes. The freight trains have hauled intermodal freight, tanker cars, bulk chemicals, and refuse destined for a landfill. The Amtrak trains carry people, all masked and socially distanced. Most likely they aren’t thinking about Lysol© douches.

This is my Sunday, so far.