Home > Penetrating Interviews > Exploring Gump’s Attics

Exploring Gump’s Attics

By Shane Tibbs

I wish I was dead. Everything I thought was real has collapsed … under the weight … of … falsity. Nothing can entice me from the ledge but … the ledge. I am a dead man. Dead man writing.

Such are the jottings I recently discovered in Gump’s journal. It goes on and on like this for pages.

No one can touch me when I’m writing. If I write I am God. I write the word of God. I write the word God. The word is God. God. Word. Word. God.

He gets like this after a few meetings with the Kingdom Witnesses. When we are hot on the trail of a old fashioned bath romp, he rarely writes. I mean his writing has a rare air to it.

 

Beer is tedium,
despair, a ginful
glass of isolation and
whimsical if rum-pous

shelf-regard.

He has talent to spare. I don’t disagree, but then I never do. He’s my pig, I his piglet.

I’d like to continue but I must go nuke him a glass of water just now.

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