July 31st

This has got to stop.
Do I need a tattoo?
July 31st, 2009, orange ink on my forearm.
This has got to stop.
Half-measures yield nothing.

Step 1 - chucked a half-full pack of export A golds into the trash. If I crave again, at least it'll be a choice. It would be nice to get back to pining, instead of using. Cold turkey this time, no champax, no substitutes.

There is strength somewhere, it came out of the blue. It's flighty, it never visits for long. People can hang out on my terms. If you want to hang out with me, then come to a meeting with me. Misery is slavery, substances, habits. Recovery is the way to happiness. My room still smells like gasoline. I will be cloistered for a while, because half measures don't work.

I'm getting apathetic - to everything except recovery. I'm wishing someone would fire me. A mercy firing. Hypnotism? Implant? Disgust? Yada Dada Sada Mada Fada.

IS my time more valuable than this? I haven't proven that it is. I haven't done much with free time, except in brief bursts of studio mania. I've never felt so far from God, enlightenment, spirituality. I'm even farther from that stuff than when I went to the opposite nihilistic extreme. Then, I felt nearer to spirituality because it was implied in the opposing stance I was taking, it loomed large as some kind of shadow. Spirit felt close even in avowed non-existence. Now I feel that God is real, but so what? It's of what consequence? But I feel my time could be, should be more valuable. I guess I should get a fucking book deal.

I will write and nothing else. Maybe change into fresh clothes, that will be my one bulwark against decay. It's the kind of decay that you can't see, but you can sense. And you can still love a decaying organism like this - it's in its prime, it's young and healthy, and it's wasting away. It scorns any love it can't touch. Maybe it's being an asshole cause it's quitting cigarettes cold turkey today.

So, I'm frustrated and depressed today, but I can't really blame anybody, except myself. But I still feel anger, anger at something, nothing, always slipping through my clenched fists and teeth. All the work I do seems to yield nothing. Certainly the work I do in the kitchen - my time is more valuable than that, I've decided. It gets harder to endure, and I'm making less than I did last year, before I quit and came back. A little glitch? Or me not wanting to even discuss the issue of money with the management? Well that's quite the glitch isn't it? That's not the kind of genetic trait conducive to creating wealth for a lineage of descendants seven generations hence. Yeah, a glitch, I'm glitchy. And kitchen work gets more and more meaningless, and it's harder and harder to run out the clock. I'm sick of being a drone. I've always avoided bitching about work, but I'm letting loose now, fuck it. I hate it. I hate my job. I can do better than that, for fuck's sake.

Then there's the labour I expend on music and writing, mostly music, mostly recording. Yeah, so the prime mover is to create, and that's a good artistic thing, I guess, but man, I'm getting nowhere with it, in objective terms. I'm not a professional. I'm nobody. I'm not in any scene, nobody cares what I'm doing, beyond some friends. Yeah, certain people prop me up. What more can they do? Motivate me to get it out there, I guess, what more can I ask for?

Agenda Broken

Can I justify this by saying I'm doing "research"? Well, I'm taking notes even as I'm scattered into 1 to the 6th pieces. Where do Holmes and Freud fit in? There are other things than this slow demolition of soul, but... Hippie tea will sooth - a proven method.

"Moments like these never last." Jenn linked me to that with her voice.

There are other things than guilt. I can say that... now. I can recognize. I can pay and repay - cash cheques. I wish I could forget, but I will by necessity, at some point. I'm caring and kind, I think, but I'm selfish, often, and still an addict, relapsing on average once a week - and the fellowship still welcomes me. I may find spirituality yet, somehow, anything can happen. It's funny, I know now that I need to be tied down. I know how to do something... cash cheques. Keep coming back, it works when you work it. In N.Y. they add, "so work it, you're worth it!" It would get boring if we always said the same thing everywhere.

Agenda broken. Crossed through to the other side. Can't imagine crossing the sleep divide. I've paid penance, pre-emptively, with two extra hard but okay days of work. That's why they call them shamb warriors. I'd like to do this, I'd like to do that, but -- myriad pyramid alternating - stillborn spotty purpose, mallwallet. This means something, but meaning means nothing - switch gears? It's just one in a hundred.

elevation

Friction and fiction are screwing my diction. The account of the screwball is still legible under urine stains on cardboard near Disneyland. Satiation is empty. I'm empty, satiated, and sentient. Uncomfortably numb, normalizing, going back to my place in the caste, in a niche of this compartment of the universe. Don't want to hear about the smell of anyone's sex.

The Tower is an icon of garish youth fantasy, a retrogratuity after graduation. I went up the elevator of perception that day, and saw the gas-releasing walls. They're covered with a special foam, a substance through which the exchange of vapours can be mediated via H-Net, the Tower mainframe. Toxic vapours, intoxicating vapours, soberizers, lethal agents for the quick dispatching of intruders. Megadeth plays through the house system, when I want it to. I did.

Chi drips off the trunk, spent spunk, a modest splurge for a modern monastic demi-urge pre-demorol. Colon still functions fine. The ailments of age have yet to accumulate but I've already won a trophy for atrophy. Precocious in decay, but staying off drugs, this week. Maybe over the hump, still a few days to go. Who or what should I reference next? Kant? Wilford Brimley? He's not in my vocabulary.

Does this scramble what I feel? I wanted to write what I feel. I want to lapse into directionless rambles, barely brushing any theme. It does express my head, in a sense. I want to be cryptic and transparent simultaneously. I'm resigned to the purposeless ness of this. I'm listening to a libravox recording of the critique of pure reason. I left that out of quotes so it fits in with the group. Consider it untitled. We've got to pick a pocket or two. Shut up and drink your gin. I tried to find a word scrambler, to cut up an unfinished novel, then poeticize the result. I could only find a character scrambler, but it wasn't called that.

I sort of like this feeling, of verbose blankness, even as it is, boring, hopeless, depressing - it's almost a wave of stupidity, but it's not that profound. I love those crests of stupid waves, though they're nauseating and terrifying. It's transcendence, about the only kind I get these days. I don't seek transcendence anymore. I don't know how to get it, except to receive it, via nocturnal communion. It's short lived. It's a dim delirium. It's sweat-soaked.

Explanations, but a few code words for myself. I'm not going for any discipline - not achieving austerity - not gonna play the glass bead game tonight. I think it's rigged, and it embarrasses me, to have my personal tastes put on a pedestal via some pompous central european. I think Robert Anton Wilson beats the hell out of Hesse anyway - but, full disclosure, he made an impression, a crater that still crinkles my cortex in solidified neural mesh, at a time when the old masters were supposed to be molding me, rather than the merry pranksters. Can I canonize RAW now that he's dead, or at least mention him in the same sentence as nobel-prize winning literati? RAW's dead. I'd forgotten.

There were merry times. I was off the bus, but I was turned on, and emitting a flash of photons in a cycle of sixty pulses per year. I discovered that was the only frequency I had in me. A first person frequency. No great novel in me, no ability to create characters, but a carnival of metaphors, a carousel of inconsequent sentences with a few neologic pearls. And dreams. Those are the jewels.

I will dream tonight, despite whatever else, I'll dream to spite. I can always count on that. Last night I dreamed I lost time, came to consciousness on Looque's heroin, with dim memories of mayhem in and around my elementary school. Yes, I'm not on the wagon in my dreams, except on those occasions where I stumble into a trench of remorse - holed up, wholucid.

There's no game here, no action. Ante, or small blind? Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra. A musical box with space flutes to the right. TAKE BREAD. Degenerate princes. Globular cluster, NC33, 780-447-XXXX. Toll for the Nasal Route, taxed, clogged, polluted. It's good when the government gets money. It's out of my hands. A muttered filibuster. Feeling, fate, futility. Sterility. Stillborn still life.

what you're missing

i gotta feel close to something
i gotta get shot down
but i gotta try
this doesn't satisfy

i turned my back on drugs again, today
but i would have loved to dip in again
even now, so close to the last lapse

hanging with my friends
hoping for kate or katie to show
or contra to call, or someone
or something interesting to happen
occasionally contributing to the very interesting
conversation on physics and mystics
but needing something, drugs, love
smoking too many cigarettes, smokes
do nothing for me anymore except
hurt my throat
starting to really want a drink, almost
ready to say fuck it, so i left instead
back home to type this

on the way home i saw someone
on the deck of that house, so
she's around, just not responding
just the sight, really set me off
somewhere, this is getting nowhere
i'm starting to bore myself, and get tired
throat hurts from smoke, it's so pointless
but better drugs would serve a purpose
and in lieu of any better purpose
i can describe the narrow band of intelligence
necessary to have gotten myself out of self-destruction today
i guess that's something

but i don't want to be a monk
i've got to get my endorphins somewhere
yeah, like i've moaned before, it's just another one of these

closer to normalcy, closer to the void
no tweaky shell of me, but that's a kind of substance
this is not so substantial, it feels so futile
maybe the zoloft's not working anymore, maybe i should
go back to 100 milligrams, that's a nice round number
a magic number, that might bring me back

where are you?

expect nothing (song to gore vidal)

listen

don't tell me you expect nothing after
don’t tell me that's what you expect
don't tell me you expect nothing after
don't tell me you have no regrets
don't tell me you have no regrets

i'm just a philosopher peasant
i'm just a literary dwarf
and this life is the death of an ego
and rock is the birth of my soul, yeah
roll is a riff on the soul

i take comfort in your distain
outside of your floodlights, something remains
in the dark, in the dung, in the dank and the scum
something in me will remain
as everything of me goes down the drain

maybe you played the game harder
i thought i played hard but you're harder
it's not hard to be hard when you’re sure of yourself
it's easy to be, with those books on your shelf
those books that you wrote on your shelf

maybe guilt is just what you needed
maybe you should’ve been looking for jesus
and just maybe the inner light blinded you
and should is a word that i should not use
jesus christ

i take comfort in your distain
outside of your floodlights, something remains
in the dark, in the dung, in the dank and the scum
something in me will remain
as everything of me goes down the drain

my birth was a laughable accident
and yours was divinely inspired
and i look for god in the cracks in my floor
and you won't look back when they shut the door
you're tired and life’s a bore

i see your point, it’s a sharp one
it stuck through my eye, there was nowhere to run
but i don't think life’s a mistake
i relish the music you hate
cause that is the music i make

i take comfort in your distain
outside of your floodlights, something remains
in the dark, in the dung, in the dank and the scum
something in me will remain
something in me will remain
as everything of me goes down the drain
down the drain

don't tell me you expect nothing after
don’t tell me that's what you expect
don't tell me you expect nothing after
don't tell me you have no regrets
don't tell me you have no regrets

hazy hungering

no pictures - just a big book

it's thin soil for the imagination
low telepathic content
context a strip mall in perth
glitchy but functioning but glitchy

people can live on low energy
if you call that living, they can

people can play music on the street for a living
with drum skills like no one's ever seen, except
in one exhibitionist per ten thousand people
with pots and pans and buckets set up to drum on
a use for cymbal analogues, a percussive mindset

a, an article, a genderless article
the, the drop of golden sun
a subject, an object, a tacit agreement
to acknowledge the spiritual dimension
regardless of whether any spirits live there
in as shallow a way as possible, then
conveniently forget

lulling

lollygagging - lulling after the pre-shamb party - blowing off commitments - fingertips a narrow window into nothing - don't touch me, i'm dirty - honesty's getting old and dull - but my serts are free now - should go back to 100

time is your friend, not your enemy

there is always forgiveness

there is always transience

silence can be bliss

this too will pass, yeah

and that, as well, prolly, you know?

what can i say? details don't really matter
poetry doesn't really either
when you're a cockroach
rich liked that line
turning humans into cockroaches
i cribbed it from mckenna

i don't know what to express
but it's something i do

i sort of want to confess
but i sort of want to hide

i fucked up royal, what can i say?
i dunno - sometimes there's nothing to say
just downtime, yeah

self-improvement

you love me with your tongue
you leave no room for me
i know you'll leave me later
i'll chew oubliette to forget
it's not as surreal as it gets
juicy fruit will move me through the ravine
with kinesthetic genius
i turn my back on your schemes
on a shrunken mission
flying with a fisher price jet back
from church roof to power cable curl dimension

i remember, your blond hair looks like a straw wig
your father liked me, your mother liked me
your dog liked me - they turned on me later
i'm not morally correct but i'm a chew toy
a velveteen rabbit

later, i'll try to write sketch comedy
in the park, the meta-FBI
how do you be a good republican?
well, you listen to your heart
you can call it god's will if you like
and you follow it until your body bloats
to the size of the clock tower

i followed you monique, all the way to the hospital
i said honesty was my virtue, but i implied i was willing
to be your kind of guy, trimmed and buffed, and
it happened, in front of random onlookers, and
you played an operatic song for me, on the piano, and sang
while thunder crashed, and holy shit, i froze, and melted
and we went down to the shore, and i looked back
and you were gone, and i went home to oblivion
and dodged rocks in the ravine and chewed gum
oubliette to forget

op-ed on an opt-out

moping, moping, moping, moping. Moping. Sleep is the only escape.

It's so tired, this routine. Pledging abstinence, relapsing, depression, pledging abstinence, relapsing... My loved ones are too nice to me. It hurts how they forgive me. But I wouldn't have it any other way. What a fix.

All the good memories from crossroads, the good people, the feeling of getting better - it's all tainted now, I wasted it, sold it for magic beans. What a stupid fuck I am. But that's part of the routine too, self-flagellation. Fuck that, what purpose does it serve?

I dunno, just writing. Writing is theraputic - not as good an escape as sleep, but it helps a bit. Okay, a few more hours of moping, then I'll sleep. It's all part of the routine. But I can break the cycle. I know I'm not a slave, goddamnit. I can take initiative, I can run this corporation.

how's the weather?

sixty millimeter mortar shells fall like rain, to be descriptive - it'll pass, mate - there'll be swamp-soaked debris to pick over, later - i've learned to see through the smoke and fog, well enough to make out the contours of things i wouldn't want to name - painkillers won't help me read "already dead" - i can say that's relevant to the eternal now

i miss desiree - i miss wendy - that's old musty stuff, ancient history - it's unbecoming to mention them - it will come to no good - i say that not to reverse-jinx it - i say that knowing that saying that doesn't make it any better, or somehow absolve me from my failings - but i miss them, my former lovers who quit me, cold turkey - maybe that says something, me saying these things, says i need something - my bid for novelty, independence, fortitude, that didn't pan out - so, again, the eyes rolling back with nostalgia

i'm more resigned to the void than ever these days - i don't even want to see women anymore - i'd cover them all in veils - young girls are a delirium, they're too bright with dead-light reflection, being close to birth - it hurts to look - lately i appreciate women too, adults, more than i used to, closer to death, hedging their bets

but i don't deserve anyone - i'm fated to lament tonight, because my status has slipped - things aren't looking up - i'm living at "home" again, the place i loathe to admit i reside at - i'm working at that "niche" in the kitchen, that is, dishwashing and nothing else - i've done it for years now, because i can't stand the pressure of doing anything else - i don't want more responsibility - i won't endure the slightest disturbance from my grungy comfort zone - i've adapted to an equilibrium of mediocrity, wet aprons and rags are my security blanket - but it's getting to be a drag, that i still work here - i've put off even talking about this stuff, admitting it, in words, because it implies i should do something about it, and that makes me queasy - i don't know how to do things, and even when i can narrow it down to a heirarchy of most to least-worst options, i don't know how to keep my immediate neurotic hangups from aborting any venture

i'm fucking depressed - zoloft withdrawal maybe - but what happens when i finally get off the meds completely and still feel like this? that'll be pretty sad

nevertheless, never underestimate the power of serotonin - i never talk of will - not god's will, even less my own will, and never free will - i should do that some time - pretend to be the willful child i was, feel free in the childish exercise of ignorant will - yeah, there's a fucking item for my laundry list

honesty is my shtick, eh?

i can't write letters to people anymore - i can't reach who i want to reach - i've tried at times - desiree blocks me, ignores me, doesn't think of me, maybe doesn't remember me - i almost hope it's gone to an amnesiac extreme, just fuck it all, it's like when i feel that death as absence-of-consciousness would be right and good - and wendy, well... the other day i actually thought of buying her some trinket from a craft store, and writing a flowery letter, not gaudy flowers, no boquet, but some rare flora from my neurons that fire together, but never enough to wire together, cerebral arcana that's not intellectual, but not stupid either, like, it's from the heart, even if i talk in neurochemical metaphors - a present for wendy, a "let's be friends, i'm asking again" present - not a scheme - a heart palpitation - but i've decided not to do that - i've tried too many times to bang my head through some mad bugger's wall - after all this time, i've gotten it through my head that reaching out to ex-girlfriends doesn't work - maybe for some people, but it's not in my nature to be appealing even as a friend, i poisoned both relationships

what is the point of saying all this? what's special about it? plenty of people are in my fix, plenty of people appreciate women and feel torn to shreds by their beauty, and always estranged from it, and fetishize lost loves

the only thing special about this is i'm saying it straight out, even though i feel nervous about naming names and shames - i'd rather encode these thoughts, but the only purpose in going through with this is that there's some comfort in abandoning pretense, it feels lighter - i don't have to shroud everything, i can be plain spoken, i can sometimes attain a virtue of "normal people" (as i call them) and i think of it as a real virtue - i'd trade a lot of myself and my art to have a physical appearance i could be confident about, and a sense of strength, and something approaching sexual prowess, so i could write and talk about the joy of sex without every word feeling clenched, with envy and ignorance, and the pretense of libertinism, uninformed through experience - i'd trade a lot to be more of a normal person

normal people - "what is normal?" you ask, cause you're a normal person, and you'd say that, thinking it's profound - me, being more sophisticated, think "what is normal?" as a rhetorical question, is cheeseball and cliche and not in touch with the reality that normal people take for granted - how'd you like to be special, like me? sophisticated and sterile? what is normal? i'll tell you what it isn't: having sex for your first time at age 21 - having your first drink at 19 - never achieving orgasm with a woman - being terrified about being asked to run food from the freezer to the line, because you don't know where everything is, and would feel so mortified at having to ask that you'd consider quitting your job rather than dealing with the anxiety, so you pretend not to hear when the cooks need tossed salad or nacho cheese, even though you'd love to be more useful and help out

normal is statistical average - "stats, so what?" you say, "they're faceless, bloodless" - no, not to me - they matter - i can't get them out of my head

i guess it's not special that i crossed paths with desiree and wendy - a lot of other people would have done it for me just as well - they were THERE, that's all - but that's true of any relationship - so i'm going to defiantly say that it was special - and i feel that it was, actually - because, they actually liked me, they would have me, they would put up with me, they would not be embarrassed to be, ostensibly, with me, in that special sense - my god, it still seems so amazing, that it ever happened, so unlikely that it could happen again - i haven't learned much of any use, i'm not seasoned

maybe my lovely ex-lovers who i still think about, actually a lot more these days, now that i'm out of the drug haze - maybe they could never have felt valued and treasured enough because i could have treasured many others - but, i didn't treasure those others, because they didn't give me the chance - i treasured the ones who gave themselves to me, at least in moments - i didn't need a lot of trappings, i didn't need an orgasm every night, i didn't need a pledge, a vow, a ring, all that crap - it was the little things that did it for me - the touch - the minutia of belonging

but i don't know if i could ever really express it - sometimes my desire to express it would result in forced poetry, barely adequate after the morally-neutral verbal facility

i hope i never hook up with anyone out of desperation, or fear of loneliness - of course i wouldn't be a tyrant, and instruct my future self on what to do, or what not to do, in the face of fears and emotions - i have a hope, a pre-emptive approach that relates to potential challenges to my self-imposed standard of dignity - but i don't love myself with such a narrow vanity that i'd cling on to dignity and be forever after without those flowers, the many variations of girls i could groove on - i'd sooner hate myself and love a woman that would have me, someone real, something true

the bread tastes stale to me - i can't subsist on it alone anymore, my spirit will die, and my body shortly thereafter - i'd walk in front of a bus, my subconscious terminating a meaningless life - i need roses, too

i was fated to hate fate-haters - what am i waiting for? i'm not a complete nitwit, i can understand my potential, and the things that are blocking it - but i'm tired - i'd rather it just came to me - i'm willing to work, but i need to feel like there's a chance at success first, something to work for

there's a sweetheart out there who would motivate me - someone fresh and new, not tainted with old paradigm associations - in her company, my past troubles with women would be irrelevant - she would be patient with my neuroses, to a point - impatient when i get too mired in moping, someone to keep me in check - she would give me positive re-enforcement, she would motivate me to be better, the person i should be - i hope she will find me, because i can't find anyone - i won't try anymore

but you know what? this dignity thing is bullshit - i have to be more humble - i have to learn somehow to be more comfortable with awkwardness and embarrassment, and just shake it off, and go about my life - i can't be cutting all my options just to maintain my cool - i'm not that cool anyway, and this fucking facade isn't making me any cooler - okay, maybe stylish in a minimalist sense, strictly adhering to what my own aesthetic unit calls "good style" - and i wouldn't throw that under the train either, i still respect my style - but i can't be a slave to it

the performing abortionists

Project Zeus

A selfish prayer slipped from G major to F minor to E flat/B flat polyglot. How perfect my disgust and lethargy is, I'm told. It's not your fault, ECCO tells me. You're not in charge of the world. You're a symptom. You can't cure the disease, because you're part of the disease. It takes the form of a fugue, it's an offering to the King. It's a humble offering. It sounds proud, it's fine fertilizer. They'll use it for the garden, after a span of time I can't comprehend. Fifty years, knock on wood. The woodpeckers already jinxed things. Many things.

It's RGB on the spectrograph, and a little run, here and there. That worm was never here before. There's a concept album in that. Man is still a rope stretched over an abyss. Here comes another superman, I can feel the vibrations. He's going to give me a back massage.

I think I'm feeling the zoloft leave my brain. I only cut the dose 25%, but already, I feel more myself, and more depressed. Interesting. There's a feeling of deja-vu, a mindstate I know I've known before, but impossible to define. I think I'm suffering mild withdrawal, I'm twitchy and bitchy. I'm getting used to twitching - it only delays sleep two hours, instead of the usual one and a half. I could probably twitch for three or four months. I'd like to just kick it completely, right now, but I wouldn't dare do it too fast. But I want to see what it's like to have it out of my head.

The laziness, the tiredness, fate. It's what was there before the installation of cerebral climate control. There isn't a lot of guilt, just the trivial fact that I'm being selfish and worthless. Taking a perverse liking to my low niche, writing and writing and writing, and not reading my peers - wanting to shirk the music projects, wanting to shut my phone off, wanting them to write me off. Wanting to be a statistic, one of those names on the wall, a monument to greasy machines.

"A one-armed machinist, Schindler?"

"He was a metal press operator! Quite skilled."

Quilt Chat. With your host, Anna Besque. And special guest, Lola Crunchberry. God is a cartoon character. We're taking him lightly. He's got a beard. It's so funny, isn't it? Yeah, it's fucking comedy gold. Something 2003 would come up with, after too much coffee.

What did 2003 ever do for me? Well, 2003 learned to play piano, and got a job, things that had to be done for later advancement up a silly donkey kong ladder on the lower half of the screen, on level 1. I now reap the benefits of this position. 2003 also got some jollies with the opposite sex - that's more than 2009 ever did. It was a lucid dream that became a stately copper-toned status thing. Not much use to me now, though. But it should be noted, for the record, that he did it without anti-depressants, subsumed in that same feeling of lethargic fate. 2009's a fucking disappointment. But 2009 writes better. So fuck 2003 and his shitty writing. There's nothing to be done with it.

the welfare ball

Four EZ swallow sleep caplets. Three EZ swallow sleep caplets. Two EZ swallow sleep caplets. One EZ swallow sleep caplet. Caplet. Caplet.

Mint-flavored meshickles. Industry enabled me. The soft tip of its most tender tendril found me. I puckered up to that sucker. Euphio slow dance on the planetarium ceiling.

Sobriety is no longer sacred and unsullied. That being said, I never qualified for the welfare ball. I do qualify for many varieties of medication. Just none of the fun stuff. Those days are gone. Now there's nothing left to do, but put on a beret and defend Canada against the invaders - post-revolutionary society, might as well get on with it. Be a hero, sigh. Or at least assume the heroic suffering of the victim, even if he didn't really do anything, except get hurt.

Some people are still picking up their welfare balls. I admire them, for having the courage, and the coke connections, the best kind of connection, to spend their entire government check for the next two weeks on cocaine. That’s a kind of commitment I can respect. Even now, there are people picking up balls. In the big city, there’s convenience, there’s phone numbers on bic lighters with “24/7” written under them, in adorably precise penmanship. In the dawn of the fifth reich, with the deutche-mark worth one tenth of its value, and the streets mostly clean of the blatant heavies who moved into town to deal blackjack, there are people connecting. A submersible got through from Peru. That’s fifteen tons.

That drawer is for tongs. That drawer is for whisks. This drawer is for "some brunch spoons". The label doesn't lie. You'll find some brunch spoons in here. They'll be used, they'll be stored, they'll be taken.

That shelf is for Robitussin Honey Cough. There's a serrated wooden cylinder with honey dripping off it. The color scheme is honey browns, there's a homely feel about it. The aesthetics were designed to be consistent with the Honey Cough. It's honey flavoured.

Earl Mason ordered 6 assorted donuts. They were put into a bag and delivered to Meadow Creek.

Four EZ swallow sleep caplets. I want winter to come and consume me. This warmth is empty. Fuzzy logic. Fly on the wall. Sweaty velcro. Flaccidity.

Thank you, people who put on fireworks. It was enough to raise my over-rested eyes for a few minutes. Oversleep. I'm superhuman in the subconscious. Sleep caplets. EZ swallow. It ain't working. It's trail's bridge. Nothing's sacred except the things I can't think of. It's become a long slog through the swamp. Nothing's sacred, least of all, the self. The body's a casino. I beat my heart. Here's one beat. Here's another. Here's one more. Oh, what a streak, what a streak of heart-beats. I feel lucky, body temperature is thirty-seven degrees, and I'm chewing on trident gum. I lost my toothbrush, I don't have enough underwear. What color will my crap be today? Stay tuned.