Plan a murder. This is pure speculation me ,  if you want.

Maybe most people who write about murder have really wanted to try to murder.

Wanting is very weird. Do I really want everything?

Zero Pain is a bad idea, undesirable. There is good pain. Pain is complicated. 

Life is case by case and relatively relative. 

Who should I murder? Am I tha murderer? I met a man named Grey Bot.

You know who I mean. My name is Freenly Boo.

You may call me Free or Boo or Freeboo. Or Booky.

The day after, when I woke, I quickly thought of his dead head, tongue and blood coming out Grey's slack mouth.

I thought of sharp tools, power tools and briefly of guns. I thought of historso and how to penetrate him and destroy the process of his organs, his whole life.

I wanted to burn his body.

It's gross, but I really just wanted him gone forever. 

No one to ever think of him. 

If I could use a huge eraser on him, I would, if he were graphite on paper.

So in a kitchen I drank grapefruit juice and planned my route to the midcity. 

Maybe I'll just pretend to have a big gun.

I wish I could have long sharp fingernails like wolverine. 

I stuck a pitchfork in the back of a car and drove.

I parked on the edge of a lawn, by an open gate.

Please allow me.

                                I am from South of Louisiana. Burdock. My parents were loansome farmers. Cotton, potatoes, or whatever. Avocado cacao. 

They were murdered by evil forces when I was 11. But I could support myself. I had had a sister 3 years younger, dead at 6. Some ugly disease. 

The senior authorities bullied the lesser lower workers. People like me were afraid and did what they sayed.

They occupied scenic mansions beyond swamps, drank wines and ate steaks. I ever had enough to live then sleep well enough, not a future to speak of.

in my mind, the narrowest option, the open end of the tunnel,

I gave it all

Up to You, my God.

I disapporate. I'm nothing amore....

then that's them