The Nakhla Dog

Lets make new words.

Yesterday I came home and couldn't find my keys. Backpack... no. Pockets... no. Spare... yes. Did anybody see me? Perhaps. And perhaps this why I invented a baseball bat that is hollowed out and pocketed with holes for pneumatic spikes. I have a baseball bat... would a metal one be cooler? No, I like the juxtaposition of the violence and the classic, while I lay in bed trying to fall asleep.

Door handle is on the left. Is that normal? I can't remember. Key is on the right. I extend my right arm lefterly, turn, squeeze, turn, push, and take a step forward with my right foot.

There is a new word for the pain I felt shoot through the inside of my left shoulder blade-- a pain that wasn't new, but presented it's self in a new context. My body is contorted to the rhythm of some banal version of twister, my right foot entering the dark and powerless (literally, powerless. I accidentally set my wall on fire because I "overpowered" the circuit with a space heater. The heat was nice... the smell wasn't worth it), and my left foot pointing to the back of my right heel, while tailing the last bit of sunlight of that day.

I grunted some word. Isn't that how all words begin?