He called for his bowl

A bowl of herb, a glass of wine, and an orgasm to end the evening. Not as high on self anymore.

In limbo. Could get higher, but it's a work night. But I'm high enough to want to write about the usual recreational subject. More and more, drugs are a drug thing. More and more. A self-reinforcing loop. Enforcing. Encircling. I've been carrying the angel and the devil into it. So there's always guilt amid exaltation. Gloria in excess diablo. But I know I'm forgetting certain states. But I don't really mind the self-reinforcing subject, even as the angel whispers shameful laments. And I don't mind writing portentious things that I criticize others for writing. It's all good. Taking drugs to write words to take drugs to. It's the Shambhala mindset that finch was perpetually ranting against. Well I can't argue that it seems disgusting, when the drugs wear off. It's like MSG. It's not supposed to be good for you.

But I remember things. Reasons. For being. Dead reasons. Resurrected reasons. Graves of reason. Encountering epitaphs on the oregon trail. The guy that died of dysentery. No reason, unless you look microscopically.

What I discovered, after a riverbed of carcasses. It's so important because it's mine. The stately rot on foamy pebbles. So beautiful because it's in my head. So ugly because it's mine. So important. Imagery bubbling up from the unconscious in a rotting stream - the herrings seem red but they're not - the metaphor is imposed, a false shade. Electron mace was an intended image, not tied to association. A shade of granite, charged. I'd rather have it forever unfulfilled, blueballs till the lifeforce dies. Dried stain of fecund uselessness.