I just want to type a bit. Maybe you will understand. I turn on the radio. No. I didn’t turn On. And not on the radio. I turned the radio on. As opposed to off. I just want to talk to myself, and have some way to remember what I said. This, the typing of it. New paragraph. I laigh—no. Not laugh. I breathed strangely through my nose, with the corners of my mouth turning up slightly. Now isn’t that an odd phrase? The corners of my mouth. Better than laigh, I mistake. Which is no excuse. The corners of my paragraph. The corners of my typewriter. Determined to fill the page, this the page, the page of his boredom, the boy typed no. The boy typed yes. I mean the boy typed on. Matbe you won’t understand, whoever you are. Hell, hadn’t I deceived myselg into believing that I was writing this for my, for my and my only my, myself. Myselg? Matbe? My fatehr my father he just came into this my room and asked mr me to pull this my desk away from the wall because this my typewriter was resonating via this my dask my desk thouhhtghtout throught throughout the house. My father’s house. Whis is no excuse. I can’t know if there’s no, I mean I can’t not know if there’s no question. I don’t need one. I am tired of this I am. End of Whatever This Is. Needless, it was done with before I could begin. it.