Cyclo'd - there are worse fates

Staring at the side of a desk, ancient woodgrain, carbon-dated back to the wildes of the child I was. I've gouged countless holes in the wood. My desk has character. He's a wounded, bitter character, still bearing a load that grows heavier every year.

When did I stop being a writer? When did I stop verbally improvising like I do on my fake-ivories? Maybe when I started trying to make sense. Trying to bring information across... to the others. That was the real quixotic mission, wasn't it? The lunatic escaped the asylum.

I think I'm still feeling that last hit of cyclobenzeprine. Don't worry folks, it's mild prescription meds and I've only got four pills left. I've been saving that stuff because they're the best downers I've ever had. They're for the sopoheads, the sleep connoiseurs.

I like being apathetic. I hate being dramatic. No, I don't deal with drama. I can't cope with it. I don't like extremes. I'm done with e, I know no good will ever come of that. I'm probably done with psychedelics, because they lead me to the same psychodrama every time and it's just no fun. I don't know if I can salvage any sense from this brain of mine.

"Behind closed eyelids" was a buzzphrase stiched into a well-worn mitten, insulating an arthritic hand. Who needs cutup when you've got introvision? I think I'm cyclo'd and I like that. Nothing is worth doing. I take the Dao's lardful lump of leisure where I can get it. The funny thing is I don't feel sick right now. Not very sick anyway, although saying that jinxes it like it always does - a little bubble of bile rises through my throat - but still, it's not all a malicious placebo malady - there is a calm I've been allowed to feel, remaining. If there was a drug that guaranteed this effect, I'd probably be hooked. Can I outwit my own brain? Maybe, he's not as smart as people think.