I’d constructed a time machine, but it only moved forward. Dope blurred me through frenetic days and fever-dream nights, made everything run together. Fast-motion.
“I could’ve sworn I paid the electric bill. Fuck it, I’ll call tomorrow and pay the stupid fee to have it turned back on.”
I’d also constructed an invisibility formula. How else do you explain how nobody notices two grown-ass men smoking crack in the dugout of the little league diamond at noon on a Monday?
“It’s cool, bro. They can’t see us in here.”
If someone had seen us, why didn’t they do anything about it?
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