Shipman, I allude you.

No.
No I won't.
Sometimes the world just makes it hard for me to exist.
The problems.
And no one even understands what I'm saying; I might as well be speaking a different language.

I like to be in my underwear and I'm betting you do too.
All of us just sitting in our underwear, hunched over, straining to read a screen.
It's a fact that we are not being sexy in our underwear.
We are existing in our underwear.

I clip my toe nails while I'm wearing my underwear.
I pop pimples while I'm wearing my underwear. 
I am not a sexy underwear-wearer.  And, I suppose, not sexy in general.

Conversation

I keep walking these circle, these monotonous circles. And I can't stop walking in these circles, these circles around you. But you keep walking straight, from point A to point B, so seemingly efficient. And sometimes I cross your line and I nod at you. Mostly because I'm sure I agree.
I keep trying to walk beside you, to walk your straight path, but inevitably I end up in the trench of circles I have paced deeply into the ground. I watch from below, jealously, as you walk your tightrope above me.



You're so beautiful as you dance from point A to point B; a wail, a bellow, a roar of sincerity.