One can conceptualize vague or even specific conceptions pertaining to suicide without actually considering any sort of following through. If a doctor, or in my case, an imagined doctor, was to ask me, “Do you have suicidal thoughts?”, I might be forced to admit, “well, yes, I do, but they're thoughts, just thoughts-- details really-- most probably not my own.”
NoNithing sacred, and no curses, no jinxes in my worldview, boys. And so now I must wonder aloud with my wandering mind for picturing bridge-jumpers(fallers, better) that look like Howard Stern 'bout to land hard on their tail-bones(the paradox of landing on it seeming like such a sore place to land but not really if you think about it) or bus-jumpers coming out of dollar-stores (why were they shopping before they decided to end it all, why dollar-rama?).
My mind can fly(fall, better?). I must create and associate, but those thoughts are not necessarily always originating from a sense of loss or moroseness or explicit personalization; more often, even, they're merely delightful fits of many untamed observations; every cloud, every cloud's shadow, every shadow's contour, every contour's relation and contraster,-- but primed and re-primed ad infinitum.
Novel ideas like suicide or suicidal details, are just colours of impressions of shadows of contours of clouds ga nee no dollar stores are now: “Dollar Twenty-Five Stores” really and in my impatient opinion, they willingly and purposely distort many truths, thousands and thousands of them, mostly small and useless, too all citizens, even to the suicidally type folks (some surely leave complete with, Leather jackets. Wet-boots. A full pack of cigarettes. Invisibility. Worn Paper so soft in their pockets like cotton but forever.
