Literally Editing My Past

Here's some "found" writing from one of my many abandoned notebooks. Unfinished stories. Stories without beginnings, middles or ends; without heads, torsos or limbs. Cut and sewn into something with a semblance of sense.

Perched on a headstone, we take sobering swigs of coffee from a mason jar. I point out Orion's belt, the only constellation I can find. We have that in common.
Her legs are bony and downy, like a little boy's. Her black bob haircut has light brown roots.
I rub my hands over my freshly shorn head. It makes my molars tingle and my body turn into pins and needles. At home the bathroom is littered with hair. My head was getting so heavy and morbid that I had to get rid of some excess weight before I snapped.
I've drank too much coffee and my mind is humming, my nerves and bones are vibrating inside my sore, exhausted limbs. I'm a twenty-watt lamp with a sixty-watt bulb. I'm shooting sparks but nothing is catching.
Eventually day cracks on the horizon and slides its sickly yellow yoke across the sky. It's a queasy, greasy Sunday morning. My stomach won't settle until dusk.
Like a pair of zombies, we stumble out of the graveyard towards home.
We pass by the park where she first got me drunk on vodka and orange juice, and sent the world hurtling. It has been spinning wildly ever since. I look into her cole-smudged eyes, and the world spins and spins. I look up at the stars. They pin me down.