31 Aug 2009

The adrenalin high is long gone. I’m so tired, I wish I was back in my den. Why did I come here today? Do I need food that bad? No, but I need to stop this foaming scab from sending its chemical hooks down my spine. It hurts, fuck, it hurts! And the only cure is food. I pass the sign in the foyer that says: “Satan, save our pain!” As if there’s any doubt He will. The only question is, does He have hailing frequencies? If so, I could tell Him to save my pain for a more appropriate time. As if there was one. But I’d ask anyway. Ow, healing hurts. It’ll drain me, unless I get to the emetic banquet before noon.

“Blood,” Howe says, draining his mug and winking at me. “It’s good today. Wise man for coming.”

I nod. Howe’s shirt is tattered and soaked with blood. I can smell that it’s his, not the communal reserve. It hasn’t dried yet, so I figure he must have fought some wolves to get here today. Maybe he sought them out just to fight, that’s his style. He doesn’t like wolves. But he’s young, like them. Rebelling against non-conformity.

There’s worship discussion happening soon, in the rooms, but first I gotta drink some blood, so I don’t faint. I don’t really like drinking blood, but you gotta do that here, it’s part of it. I figure I’ll come to like it. I hope.

Howe is trying to suck me into conversation, but I’m off to my favourite emetic room, the one with the marble trough where the subterranean pumps hum me hymns. Glass cabinets line the walls. I grab a glass, grind my teeth, and dunk it in the trough. Then I slug it back. The warmth is pleasing. The taste is hell. I’m in a bright crimson reverie, and the sickness is healing – creeping quease, cerebro-spinal fluid with tendrils of blood, sick, SICKLY, and I can’t puke. A preliminary retch. I haven’t eaten enough. I wish I was back in my den. It’s so cold there, but it only takes two days before you’re shivered out – then it’s only another three days to finally fall asleep. And I can sleep longer than anyone I know. And I’m proud of this, but ashamed for that. And my throat is revving, retching up... a fine, long meaty hurl. It lands in the gutter beside the trough. I call it the puke-moat. Cough. Splutter. And I like the post-purge glow. Wish it lasted longer.

“Drink your blood,” big Marsha says as she passes me, like I haven’t already. She’s on such a high plane, she doesn’t hurl – ever. She’s above it all. She worships with the lions, those civil master baiters, I say, cause I think it’s funny. Some people say she takes blood wafers, or pressed pills or something.

“Hey, is it too late for free bread?” I call after her. She doesn’t seem to hear. Well... it’s not too late for worship. It’s been said that there’ll be pie in the sky when you die.

Howe has come to the same room as me, punctual, wolf-hunt or no.

“Drink your blood,” he says.

“I already had some,” I say.

“Drink some more.” He’s handing me a mug. “This won’t make you purge, if you let a little.”

Well, I can’t argue with Howe, he’s got such thick arms. So I take out my point, stick it in the underside of my forearm, and draw some of mine into a vacuutainer. Then drop it in the mug. Swish it around. Take sips. For a second I think I’m going to projectile vomit right into the gathering crowd of worshippers. But I tell myself I like the taste. It’s good, it’s nice, it’s life, it’s the best thing there is.

29 Aug 2009


“Hail Satan,” says the man on the street as we converge. It sounds less like a statement than a question. Does he need affirmation from me? What should I do?

I’m getting religion now, right? Should I murumble, uh, hail Satan? It works better when you say it out loud though. Why can’t I say it out loud? He seems like a nice old feller. Not like those wolves loitering around the steps of the temple for free bread and soup and socialization. I’ll give them the signum satanus. There. It’s okay, nobody saw anyway. Invisibility, the one ability I squeeze from an able body. There’ll be no consequence, for anything.

“I said, Hail Satan,” the old man says again, re-appearing from nowhere. I was flanked, stalked. What’s he waiting for? There are wolves out here.

“What do you want from me, sir?” I say as the adrenalin cycle begins. I should meet his eyes, gauge the gaze, but I half want to run, to the temple. He could decide in a split second that I’m not his kind, he might want my blood. I’ve been told my blood is good, type G, which we all know is rich with analgesic alkaloids – and those old folks may be feeble, but their noses are experienced. Why didn’t I bring the dread side-arm today? Because I was blissed-out this morning, and now I’m gonna pay. The martial arts course would have paid for itself, if I’d gone, instead of hibernating that month.

In the middle of inner-dialog, I’m gripped from the side and spun around, with a clamp on my arms and waist. Something slices into my exothroat, followed by a suction funnel binding to the breach. Feeble old man, didn’t make it to the jugular. Yet. A shot rings out and he jerks me forward like a sodomite, then slumps to the street in front of me, clawing my shoulders on the way down with a half-second of life. I stumble out from his grasp, nearly falling myself. The suction cup is spurting my blood out of a tube segment in rhythm to my pulse.

Now I see one of the wolves with a smoking gun, the half-naked, body-pierced child of fifteen or so, who saved my life.

“You owe me,” she says, licking her lips. I nod.

“Can’t stand those geri vampires,” says another wolf, a long-haired waif in a ballcap. Fuck, is this enough spiritual experience for one day? Can I get some peaceful worship now? The devil may care.

“Hey, nice immune system you got there man,” the waif tells me. My exothroat isn’t spurting blood anymore. It’s foaming scabs. I guess I should be proud. I rip the suction cup off my wound, sending pink globules of foam into the air. The tube flops around on the ground like a dildo.

“Hell is rancid electrons,” says somebody, like it’s a message for me, like it’s profound. He’s going gray in the beard, but he sounds like a wolf.

“Pack,” I say, and salute them punks. This is obligatory, they get off on it.

28 Aug 2009

bulk soothe

he made himself a slothsnest, what he couldn't buy in any store, no dollarstore, no superstore, no drugstore... only his own handmaiden would serve - it caressed, and there was the barest hint of eros, the kind that won’t distinguish between a tickle and a giggle and a sigh and nirvana and an animal, a film thinning to vapour, with no olfactory trace, but sloven grace - the short wave called him, and he came, slow as you please, siamese, to see johnson still on the job, saying: the urethra needs ya, and ya need the urethra; no crowd pleaser, no cock teaser, and entirely too much

you and I, we can't get no slothsnest made for us, and he tried but he couldn't, but she, she might have succeeded, without trying, her contours seemed guided, as if they collided with a charmed prince and providence, and she glides with glib comfort, but i still think she falls short of sloth

he's got hypno-frequencies here, sopo-fragments there, and if his lies sting his eyes, in the fiction of third person, he'll change to i, shitcan the lie - and if only i could control the variables, the climate overwhelms the switchboard except in those special wax cylinder grooves - sacred ness self-immolates, a puckered graying potentate of dried flesh, good for snuff, ornaments that give off light and ambiance to calm the sense of shard and chafe and soft bones

soft bones say there's nothing to hone, you already own the rights to peace of mind, the royalties are trickling in, the truest posture is to lie - dim the lights, fade the volume to fifteen percent and lie - soothe in bulk, baby, it sounds okay to me, and i would lie – and remember to wake up amid rapid-eye-movement, and write down what you saw just before it fed the maw of grimy glass teeth, they’ll be testing you, but your only purpose is to impregnate data with disorder

25 Aug 2009

If I am elected Pezident....

From each according to his ability
To each according to his need

It had somethintodo with Max. With Max Berg. Ronnie Hobbs, and Teeth Grindin Tobin the Forth - an' Lesta Young. Popularly known as|
back in da day - dem cats, comin outa Pittsburg, by waya Kansas City

Although Marx is popularly thought of as the originator of the phrase, the slogan was common to the socialist movement and was first used by Louis Blanc in 1840, in "The organization of work", as a revision of a quote by the utopian socialist Henri de Saint Simon, who claimed that each should be rewarded according to how much he works.

Period. And den der was all these musicians. All these fantastic jazz musicians. Hustlin and runnin across Brooklin bridge. Descending to da city. Da big Apple. Down der, around City Hall. Bright an early one mornin, just a runnin. And der was dis one cat dat looked jus like Lester Young - den his image just kep changin - den he started lookin like Billy plasma-pulse-rifle - den back to Lester - den Billy - den Les-den Billy...

An I ran up to im and I said, say man... I said to im I sez hay man, who's got da key? An he looked at me, and he says, hey man, da key? An he looked at me, and he says: "The key?... What key?" He says, "Gus got da key."

I say, I says, "Gus? Gus who?"

He says, "Don't you know?"

When the ladle wanna salsa dat crowd - receiva you say it was like this - and although you so in tune wif dis n dat, i'm playin you like da monkey boy - bent you all outa shape? hey, tell it to da judge, mofo... and you find da defects in my mix n match - i cone-sidah myself partovah lineage... howevah mutogenic and digitransientill da register ring of disarequiem... yeah, it's not your imagination

don't you know? gus johnson got da key

and dat's when i did my research

search aroundda jazz scene - dida hissory of music - insideout, outsidin

talkta onotimah, wayback when

say, ya, dontchaknow, ol gus johnson wasa drumma - back outa kansas city

14 Aug 2009


you got to stop melting
a little freeze would go aways
you got to stop melting
cause there's no one worth crying for anyways
and activism ain't no way to live - if you're gonna live
and i don't see you reaching for no gun

you got to stop melting
cause there ain't no one worth crying for
you might as well accept it
we're a bunch of shallow assholes
not as shallow as you, but
it doesn't make you deeper if you cry
you can melt till you're a puddle on the floor
you’ll still be shallow

you got to stop melting
cause that girl, she don't think of you no more
and the other girl don't even remember
and she's melting for another
there's a pool, she found one
deeper and warmer

you hear those moans, those pleasure groans?
it means there's nothing to be done
but to greet the dying sun
say hi

you better face it, we're fucked
me and you
and the wise men, and the fools
that's the only rule

i just can't see no world war three
that ain't how it's gonna be
just sweat and tears and puddles
and no one’s responsibility

some people are better
some people are worse
some people know it
some people are poets

somewhere there's a happy ending to a massage
the oldest and most honest profession, i profess

there she is on local radio
with her sweet sweet voice
a substitute if only i was real
i laugh at her hippie dippie ideas, deals, ideals
i laugh at them like i used to laugh at barney
when children's television was "stupid"
i laugh at her expressions
not heartily, but gently, shallowly
and use them to sleep
and feel oxytocin in my head

13 Aug 2009


nullify, in nullifying

persisting in folly

desire to erase - not with a shotgun

maybe a psychotic break would be merciful - the thing is, this thing i'm doing is so slow, just agonizingly, analytically SLOOOOOOOOW, a nine hundred day long trainwreck

you know what we need? maybe it's just what i need, but i'll be inclusive:

dreams are ego-killer, that's why i love them so much
they don't always allow escape from ego - they do sometimes, but when they don't, they at least DISTORT ego - ergo...

daylight, pesticide - deep into the finger trap at this joint - rabid - cheese with whine - disguise - smothered under cool quilts - smothered under cool quilts - smothered under cool quilts -- if death is sleep... if death is sleep... if sleep is death...

i got connected, that was my problem - now i can't get un-connected - i guess that's the whole point of this game, the tension in the chinese finger trap - check

10 Aug 2009

i wish this was a sandcastle

i built a good one yesterday, accidentally, with a friend - i left it on the beach

soft voices - mundane observations in muted tones - muted but not broken - functioning, like an organism in retreat, but with room to dig in, for later growth - for now, underwater, strange breathing, strained, but filling a certain percentage of capacitors that turn oxygen into thought

prove that you're fertile? grateful for crumbs - remembering matt's "eyepowder" - it's true, i am doing "research" - i'm learning things - that i can think whatever i want about this and that, but emotions rule the roost, make or break thoughts, notions, ideas, worldview, or the view of a simple object, action

i might need to hide, i hope not - but there are bastions, reserves of purpose, or just, JESUS CHRIST, WHY DO I HAVE TO NAME THESE THINGS? it seems this urge is the root of the sickness - anyway - books are a refuge - they have been, recently - it's just a shame i have to say what is worthy and beautiful and what is sick - let's call it a snow globe - a flake of shambles past - i really like this font, that's a fact - and i like redheads - i hope they appreciate, haha - nah

why do i seek thrills? like that's a worthy goal - maybe it was, once - this is the endless conversation - sleep can be delayed - you just woke papa up - fidel's flipping channels - neighbor kitty comes over to visit - meowing, meowing

call it a snow dome

feeling - feeling okay - not groovy really, really... but feeling... okay

feeling okay with feeling - and sort of wanting to express, whatever - distant -- luc wasn't really saying anything, just talking about the keyboard - those kids were fast as lightning -- so i was multitasking

there's no need to be profound, feeling suffices - praise is too much - or enough i suppose - the verbal part - fragments are okay - cigarettes are a nice spice, export a rollies - luc gets algebra but not arithmetic - mechanical reasoning, he's good at that - gearhead - i heard it somewhere

sandworms - itchiness is salvation - comforts of a woman would be nice, even an aloof feminine form - just a sweet voice, whatever the texture - last night i made it to the north pole -- that's not a metaphor, i went on an arctic expedition with some of my friends, rose was there with a parka - we reached the pole, it was a short metal stake at the magnetic locus, or whatever. Vague satisfaction. We ventured back to camp in the tundra during a blizzard. We set up a croquet course inside the big tent, but someone got pissed off at us for driving wickets through the tent floor. It was a dream, but I quite firmly believed in it.

fidel is absorbed in cartoons, but at least it's the knowledge network, and there's no nasty-ass commercials

good for marco, bailing - pretty lady with fairy wings fallen asleep on the rocks - i was kinda like smitten, i wanted to rake her up, but i was pretty much woah, uh heh heh, um... you're broken - she was right in the sun, too

the breeze is cool - i see and feel beauty between yawning chasms of spiritual death, i question the goodness in everything as soon as i discover it, but at least i write it down before i weep at the hollowness - i just want to express, i don't want any reward, i don't deserve anything - except maybe health, sanity, that would be a nice change, really - to put it perfectly: i'm overdosed on earnestness and honestness and most desperately need to be distanced and slick and sly and keeping a certain earned vice of cynicism, or nothing even as lofty as that, just being bitchy and having my niche

haesel eyes - play it by ear - the trick is, it's more like showing a dog a card trick, i'm so not here mentally - beigie bland hair color, eye color - maybe my eyes ARE cool - my god, this is like, so cool - in case there's any question, i'm rambling, drifting - i don't look in peoples eyes as a matter of habit, not that i'm opposed to it - it just doesn't happen very often

i love your magic act, it's very charming - he's getting grizzled, paying the price, showing me his magic act, coin tricks

i have a desperate fear and sadness in me, but i'm counting my blessings - moments like these never last, but even so, there are things to enjoy in this - maybe just for today, i'll take a break from taking upon myself the burden of cleanliness - hopelessness gets tiring, maybe i can hope for just a good itch today - which is okay - heavy things are happening - that's no metaphor, my best friend laid some HEAVY shit on me, which i can't go into - in any case, we're hanging out with his kid and talking about genetics - i wondered how i would feel, react, if i was ever faced with something like that - well, it churned out somehow, it was profound, and scary and real and warped and dreamy, but then we thought of other things to think about

the breeze is all i can enjoy, all i care about, and it's forgiving, comforting

it gets bad, when i want to annihilate all traces of self - it's guilt, self-inflicted pain - the contrails theory tangent -- me and luc talking about the paranoid hippies - we've taken care of responsibilities - fed his kid - and he's happy, god bless him

i hope papa gets some sleep

9 Aug 2009

the cycle

Goddamn spinning brain, keeping me up, up to no good.

Good news, and bad news... The good news is, my brain is healing. I'm getting some vitality and creativity back. I don't hate myself utterly, there may be a place or purpose for me, somewhere, eventually. I'm not so depressed. My body is forgiving, considering what I've inflicted on it, the last few weeks. It's begun to regenerate. It hasn't even been a week.

Time crawls when you're trying to stay sober. One day at a time.

Which brings me to the bad news. It hasn't even been a week. And I'm hyping a "streak". And already, I'm starting to get obsessive cravings, even for the specific drugs that hollowed me out so terribly, so recently, but more for old favourites I haven't come across in a while. When I try to sleep, my mind starts scheming, planning, ways I could score this or that, this in combination with that, on this or that occasion, with this or that person, a certain method, something new, or something I haven't tried in a while. This is what happens when I start feeling healthy again: I lose the dread and disgust. Racing for the death of all good feeling and meaning and spiritual sense, with the pedal to the floor, seems like just a part of this complete breakfast. It's what normal people do, it's just getting high with your friends. I've waited long enough, I can go and use again, and yeah, I'll feel like shit after, but it'll be fun, and I'll deal with the downer later. Ugh.

That's what keeps this wheel spinning, the one that’s such a boring blur I barely know what to write about it anymore. I don't feel so abysmally low, like I did a few blog entries ago, when I wrote desperately, just to try and think of something, anything, to do, the thinnest shell of meaning: "I can hardly say anything at this point". The cycle, the stupid horrible cycle. I am Grateful with a capital G, that I have recovered to this point, where I can feel happy again, but I am still SO addicted, and so in the obsessing stage. My sick mind is spinning schemes tonight, one after another, all sorts of ways for synthesizing my own private satori, my clandestine lab. I had to take a sleeping pill. A garden variety drammie, and I don't like delirium much anymore, not even soporific delirium. I'd rather just sleep, like a mammal.

I won't succumb this time, but it hasn't even been a week. Grumble. Keep coming back, I guess. Not to my own spiritual sinkhole, but the Other. The fellowship. It's lost its novelty for me, but is gaining the worn wisdom of repetition, trial and error.

8 Aug 2009

a vial in a cranny of a cubby in the corner of the marble hall

You couldn't tell him he was looking for something. He wouldn’t have believed you. He couldn’t have, belief wouldn’t have him – not in the marble house. I don't think anyone lived there. People came to visit though, stayed to visit. He would bump into them, not remembering “the death of masculinity”.

He kissed a ghost, at one point. It was passionate, and longer than their conversation. It was informed and deformed, a rare kind of love, caressing life into the face of a memory. It wasn’t his memory - he’d been fragged by his teammates and left with a hole through the hippocampus. He didn’t deserve any preserved memory, I don’t think. But he got some of her tongue, and that makes me happy, like the rogue jury that saved the scoundrel. Follicle filaments brushed his fingertips, and something began to foam out from their lip-locked intersection, a byproduct of sense-making propositions, a biohazard, but okay for ghosts, if dissolving, lysol-like.

Under the marble columns was a cubby, the place where his addictions tumbled out of pocket linings, the addictions that didn't really deserve the credibility of back alleys, but had greater mystique in sleep, a strong hold and a gentle release. Mummies controlled the release, their noodles would squirm and turn when it was time for a new term.

There was dust in the vial. He tapped out crumbs. Some old crusted powder. A ghost-grade kranque. He’d just gone through a suitcase that wasn't his. It belonged to a friend of a friend. It had things of value, but those things likely had tracking devices hidden on the molecular level. But there was also a hypodermic syringe with maroon stains on the inside and some on the lip, a forlorn residue. There were cobwebs and wormholes in that place. The tracking devices were sending signals via satellites, subspace, necromites, to Great Boys who might have been interested in his whereabouts, and/or the conjunction of himself with their dormant suitcase items.

They might have been interested or they have not have been, but he knew a secret about the hypodermic syringe in the cubbyhole that no one else knew, except maybe ghosts from the marble foyer who were neutral on the subject. The syringe could be used as a shield. Information could pass through with nothing incriminating escaping, only inconsequential discharge. A certain class of black hole.

Dust spun in whirls from the air ventilation system, wheezing drafts through a smirking duct. A rogue star above dropped a bit of cool shine through the marble foyer. Black holes were out there, but they could be almost anywhere. Black holes could suit a sunny afternoon, experienced on the microscopic level, or not experienced. There were supplies somewhere, weren't there?

He'd called Locin, and Locin had answered. Oh, just answering his call, all personal-like, made him feel so special. Locin, his Locin. He didn't think Locin had a heart, but he had gold somewhere. Not anywhere obvious, he didn't wear gold, but he thought Locin might have been one of those people who ate it in pills as a supplement. He might even have taken vitamine, which has snowberry extract in it, and can only be picked on doubletake pikeways in the dead of winter, deep in the forest of the super-rural sprawl, beware of gods... You're unlikely to ever taste vitamine unless you're high up on the supply chain, or you've circumvented the supply chain entirely, and unlearned many things, and picked a lot of berries, and fallen on many paths.

Locin's sweet deadpan had answered, denoting hard facts about inventory while connoting a friendly good-natured camaraderie in business, distanced by a thousand yard dissociation, the fifty yard wink, betraying no secret, but offering graciously his part of the agreed-upon information exchange. The voice was a rocket rush, and a plateau, but the man was not available. Oh, the heartbreak, all those chemicals revved up and ready to go, but the captain of the fleet wasn't around to lend a vehicle.

Well, time will parse his whine, taxes paid to the welfare cosmos. It doesn't help him now, it seems like empty words, whispering to columns of the marble hall, but - hey, blink, you're not paralyzed anymore. I don't know where you should go, but you might want to help me out by getting out of bed and going to work or you're going to be out of a job and I won't have any financial resources. Do it for me, buddy. We're in this together.

7 Aug 2009

let's make a grease fire of this town, baby

My chi is zero. Now, there's solemnity to pursue. Maybe it's already here. Maybe I can feel it forever, attained.

Well, if sex ever gets boring, I'll ask you some questions, try to find out some real shit. Acupuncture isn't my thing, but I'll grant that it works better then trepanation. I won't poke holes in you, but I'll poke your holes, that's something I can do. I could poke holes in myself, I have, I would under a variety of circumstances.

I had solemn thoughts about drugs, about how it stopped being fun, and it's solemnly good to be getting off them, a solemn streak going, and then I thought, I've never banged substance d, like I should've fucked ohwhatshername, and that would be fun, a ledge below the edge, a carefree willie coyote chasing the roadrunner off a cliff, and well, here we go down the mullberry bush, but no. I refuse.

My will is strong to have a better quality of fun than I've had for quite a while, or even a better quality of life than “having fun”, maybe there's some kind of solemn duty in my destiny, maybe I could live for something other than myself.

Solemnity, my chi is gone, when I get it back I'll get horny, and frustrated, but I'll still be leading a better quality of life until I run off the cliff. Maybe if I stay on the road for a while, I'll learn what frustration is for. I hope there's more nuance to it than the simple arithmetical fact I hate, that big fucking wall that shadows my will to live, to REALLY live, the equation: no pain no gain. That's why I looked for escapes in holes in my arm. Fantasize, or realize a coma, honest phoniness fuck this.

I want to tear poetry to frayed and jagged fibers, scatter them over the ground, forget them, leave them to the night janitor in his groucho mask, entertaining no one. That's a good Rilke quote, though. I don't really know what to say, maybe I want to bang my head on another wall, sacrifice another midget, the latest regeneration of self, dance like a cripple, build railroads like a chinaman. Pre-apocalyptic electrical substation party at the edge of the housing development, I have access to the entirely of irrelevant information and so does everyone else, now slice into my excess flesh with a serrated steak knife, I can't be bothered to do it myself.

Her, I assume, a mindfuck of artistic stature in any case, turns and burns, the ellipse river letting me fill space with all kinds of crazy notions. I have no more courage as an artist than as a man, I hide like a packrat amidst junk of no meaning or consequence the second anything hard to reveal comes up, and you know, that's mostly emotional and sexual and, well, mostly those two, the things I really haven't got a handle on, and they mean so much more than I've ever granted them, even now, the elephant and the whale in the aquarium, in a 3d rendered fictional city of exquisite planning, within the aesthetic unit I'll call the duke nukem idiom.

So I have that rendered sort of taste, that tastes like smoky rooms with dextromethorphan being filtered from cough medicine in a closet in the bedroom, and dusty borrowed speakers, and plastic wrap and gelcaps, and fresh ejaculate, and the impossible sense of everything being alright that never really existed even as a sense, but did curl through the room, invisibly, hovering for a second in front of tired eyes, white wine fumes, that rendered sort of taste that guides me, through instinct, not to mention the basic facts of frustrations that are the result of primate-coded biological imperatives that drove me to this evolutionary niche, silly primate itch that feels so profound, that seems to have such implications for me as an ego, an ego that writes poetry and looks with sub-informed but hyperjaded eyes at a thing beyond the ego, that is “my” body, that writes and pretends to be the author, that writes hymns to itself as God, that’s not particularly “Good”, many “Directions”, and quite “Orderly”, yes.

5 Aug 2009

lulling again

i lost grip of a lot

and i've said it all before

life has gotten very gray, i didn't wait for the color to come back, like it does, but instead i shattered paint cans with a shotgun, now i've got that toxic taste - okay then

it doesn't serve art or poetry or music, anymore, if it ever did, and it certainly doesn't serve me - and there's no credibility left - and i'm a traitor to myself, i don't trust myself, i never should have in the first place

i can't say anything - the pink lemonade is fine - big giant lull - fuck, i just want to say that i hate myself so much - i just need to say that, i need to express it - i need a change, i'm just mired in this bullshit - can't seem to drag myself out - my will is weak - my brain is sick - i'm supposed to play at open stage tonight - i thought, i could redeem myself through music - not flake out, show up with my gear - but i don't think it's in me today - this is a long recovery - i may have the capacity to regenerate some juice - if so, i'm quite lucky in that regard - i've come to think that perhaps real healing is years away, assuming i stay on track - i don't know, i've gotten very very good at treason lately, it's about all i know