scrubbing is loud in the hallway at night. rubbing around on a wall wailing wipes. swiping i smite it and bite off some lipskin, which sticks to the pipe i ignite in the kitchen. i hit it and listen to lightning that isn't, a smidgen as likely to excite the living, as giving the slightest of strokes on some molding, at night with a soapy old sponge that i'm holding, between a cold thumb and a dumb set of digits, that grip as i swish and i rinse in dish liquid, that drips on the floor as i sit in position, to get at a corner and finish my mission, envisioning limitless chores in addition. as chords of percussion are frightfully stricken, despite my decision to function in silence, i viciously spit and i violently shine it. i bitch with a whisper," i'm tryinna be quiet". i inch up the stairs like a giant vagina, and slip back inside where i kick off my slippers, and slide out my jacket and pick up the clicker, and flick on a bic with a perilous racket, and stare at this crap that is barely distracting. i carelessly clap at the cats in the cat scenes, and slap at my knees with well rounded reaction, that drums a resounding display that's delightful, but scrubbing is loud in the hallway past nightfall.
