Get Away From The door!

These magazines are expired. The guy who collected them is dead. He's been dead for years now.

I called him Dad.

And these newspaper articles he collected are obsolete. But at one time, he considered them worth something 'cause they represent a time in history.

I can get rid of them now 'cause I don’t want them.

I need to throw them into the garbage where they belong.

I don't like old things. I don't want to go back to the past because... I just don't fucking want to!

I want to wipe away the past like dust.

I don't want to see the old school, especially pictures of the lunchroom or the hallways or old teachers. I don't want to know about it. I don't want to know about death.

I don't want to know people at all. I don't want to see people when I go out. I don't even want to see neighbors or old cousins.

I don't need to see people walking through town.

I don't want friends.

My screwed-up mind; my screwed-up dreams—don't know how to get rid of them anyway,

What they looked like.

What I saw.