going to the bathroom with loved ones

I will not lose my train of thought. We have been at it since day one. Day One was nearly fifty two years ago but nothing has changed except the size and strength of the bowel movements. We would wash up after some good sex and the sweat would stick and shine on our bodies After a shower where there had been cum or shit or shampoo or shower water the sweat would soon return there was no a/c then. The towels were all too damp then, now they bruise and scrape but here we are watching each other pee again. You always used to go in the shower and told me not to tell your roommate. Now you are very sick. I love you. You are dying but we’re always doing a little bit of that—no need to raise a fuss. Remember the first time we did it during your period. The bright blood on my underroos was scary or endearing or both. We soaked everything in blood and then warm water, no stains set in. This is my new favorite coffee shop. I couldn’t ask for a better cup of joe. You always could but didn’t. This was not the problem that it once seemed. I don’t care about it. I don’t like thinking about youth. This is nostalgia. This should be appreciated but guarded against. I don’t want to be interrupted yet. Are there any metaphors? Quoting a song: is there anybody out there? When will you come back to the way everything used to be. If there was ever any question I was confused by the question. My sister says I’m stupid all at once. I don’t want to see anyone that I know. My grandfather apparently wants me to write his eulogy. I am flattered and scared at the same time. When my grandfather dies I believe that I will receive all of his memories. My grandfather survived the Korean War on the ground. War is a series of geographical phenomena. Everything is illumined. Back off. When I grow up I want to possess all the memories of all the generations of my entire family back and back and back to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. My psychologist said this is only natural for a boy of my sensibilities. His consoling explanation, I know, will not even begin to suffice. The words I am using to describe this situation are increasinginglyly not doing any good. Nowadays my words are going stale quicker. For example: my words are not bread of any kind. The kid had a compunction to straighten picture frames in public places. Society became fed up with him a lot faster than his mother ever anticipated. That was the problem with his mother, you see, she was the worst ever anticipator. Worse than that Napoleon Bonaparte fellow. Or perhaps worse than a false prophet of ancient eastern empires and deserts. This may never be matched. Try and match it. Try TO match it. These are also all thoughts, therefore, moving much too fast.