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stork daddy
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driving home, he looked out his window at drab houses covered in sun. his truck with no shocks rambled on and magnified every bump on the road sometimes jarring his head. On a lawn with a rusted lawnmower two men sat talking. The one who caught his attention was fat and balding, wearing a formerly white t shirt stained to dingy yellow. It was loose around his arms and tight around his belly. His face was dirty, but not freshly, it seemed as if it had been cleaned impatiently once, but mainly had been cleaned by the activities of a day or two. Ian pictured him milling over the events of a day. Talking about sports or dogs or cars to pass the time. Talking about things he could touch, or move, or own. History would not be one of these topics. He pictured him tired at night from whatever physical exertion kept him paid but not in shape. Eating whever the opportunity presented itself, food was a pleasure that didn't require the nuances and rigours of a person. At night he might lie on his bed for a moment, staring dumbly at the ceiling. But right before he asked that fatal question of why? or what for? he would get restless and turn on the tv, watch a porno, fall asleep with the sounds of unconditional pleasure and acceptance filling a head that wished to be a fixed machine like cars or tools. He had to know somewhere down in his heart that he was a tool, someone else's tool, how could he not wish to be like one, to not be aware of possibilities or other paths, but to just do things. It was the thinking, the waiting that aggravated him when traffic lagged too long and the radio station went to commercial and he was alone with himself. Ian knew this man would never be a part of the excitement of his age, he'd never really know much about a computer untill he had to. Like other serfs before him, he would be elevated indirectly by the great minds of his time, but what had really changed? What really could make his life better than it was before? The beers he drank at lunch at home alone on his couch at night, the porno, the music loud or louder, they all hinted at the answer. He wanted to be able to do something about the faint glimmers of questioning which most people call dreams within him. And if he couldn't do anything about them, he wanted them to just go away.
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