Western Turgid Inarticulate

No one comes to visit. Don't worry about the wrath of me. I don't know why I thought a change in living arrangement would change anything. About my fundamental insecurity and awareness of being nothing. I ran out of things to blame. I blame everything. I blame God. I blame myself. Down time. Waiting for someone to lift my spirits. Sitting on the soggy shoulder of the chunnel, watching traffic go by. There, a metaphor. The only one today, half a hallucination. Unremembered dreams. A grain of rice. What the welfare cosmos will apportion to me, a reduced ration, as punishment for artificial perception enhancement eschewing shamanic means. Can't write anything. Can't play anything. Will avoid pretending to be suicidal, at least. There is no therapy. There is no art. Tired. Turgid. Mired. Dead inside. No imagination. Memories of better times. There's no going back to that. No future. The past was downtime too, but I milked it. Ate at burger king. Now it's gone. The comfortable delusions with it. That feeling of being complete, buoyant, having a life. Awareness of emptiness. No logical end to this. Could stop now, could go on. Cassandra Gemini. Appreciation? Ration? Reason. They've been hyping valentine's day for a week already. Erotic poetry night. Happy birthday. I'm maintaining, for no purpose. Got a thousand dollar keyboard amplifier, and custom fit earplugs on order. Funny how I used to play video games. Like they were all I needed. Painful memories lost in sludge. Parties pounding at the edges, temples, gonna have to crank the white noise, lie down, summon superfluous sleep. Work tomorrow. Mindless work. The 17 minute improv is over.