What if our days become our dreams? (What then Horatio?)

Once I was cutting the buttons off a pile of shirts to be thrown away. LIke
the american indians who used all the parts of the buffalo they killed.
(they put the horns on their hats and burned buffalo chips in their fires).
I was canabalizing useless shirts. I cut out some pockets, perhaps to use as
handy things to polish shoes. As the pile of pockets grew, I smiled. That
night I took them out with me on my rounds.

What do I have in my pocket?

More pockets.

Girls loved them.

Put a pocket to her cheek and let her eyes roll in ecstasy.

Here! You can have one.

Bartenders even accepted them as tips.

I live on Pocket Street.

The guy at the 7-11 doesn't understand and wants to call the police.

A lecture oon the invention of the pocket in medievil times.

How many pockets can you fit into your mouth?

At the end of the night I take all of those damned things and glu-stick them
all over the car the 7-11 attendant parked out back. He will at least have
something to write home about this week.

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Does this man have all the secrets to the universe or what?

KindaLost