A small number of things.

Tonight I drink, alone, $60 whiskey and open myself again to this white screen, the only thing that'll feel these words. This whiskey is soft, milky, abrasive. A rain in which I bathe myself and wash away one too many mistakes. That sounds about right, like this damned depressing music I'm listening to which sounds so right because anything but would sound so wrong. I have only use for such music. One of a small number of things I call my own for which I have use.

K, Sorry, here is the drunken stream of conscious for which all of yous flock here.

Droves I tell you, droves.

...

The flakes fell and dispersed along the faint ripples they had created. The feeding was right on time, and though Chester knew it would be, he still got as excited as he did every other day. Chester the goldfish squirmed his way up to the top, where the water met the air, and he swam along the surface, sniffing for that familiar seaweed scent. As he swam Chester noticed that the other fish were swimming around at the top with him. They nibbled at pieces of fishfood and chased them as they would sink toward the bottom. For a few minutes there was a boy who thought he could write. You will find no such boy here. Good day.