Taking card stock #4
The seasoned sound of unequal expectations served up like a main course. Head like a hole and the cram cramped script of a messenger. There are no words to deliver—the car wouldn’t start and the mechanic only stares into space, though he swore this was his dream job. Now he can barely manage to put on the nitrile gloves—some days he comes home without oil on his cuffs, and he wonders how many sentences need to be compressed to get a slurry of letters worth applying to something. He would start with a small brush and a deft application—just a few letters at a time—until the room becomes wall papered with newsprint. Turning wrenches turned into words, when the writing is stuck a large wrench needs turning.