The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 and a bottle of white wine after a day of writing and more writing and editing and even more writing and a walk taking in trees and hot stones that burn my hands when I pick them up while still unable to shake the permanent reminder that I am flesh and flesh fades quicker than I’d like it to. Through the realm of electricity and voodoo shit some blonde with tits bigger than Bristol and a pair of the cutest brown eyes you’ll ever see gave me a moments release but the barrage of words and memories and everything else took their toll until all I could do was lie there drained and brain-dead wishing for a bullet to put an end to that which both liberates and condemns. The in and out of the creative act. Hour after hour and day after day, it sucks me in and chews me up. Writing has given me a doorway into myself, and while it gives pleasure and intimacy, it leaves me vulnerable and sensitive in ways that feel alien and intrusive. I bleed daily and feel myself shifting while clinging to the shadow of others. Abusing myself both physically and mentally, I swim with grief while being tickled by picking fingers that do their best to tease even when I’m on the verge of falling through the floor and disappearing for weeks. This is my bubble, and yet in this war zone, I am more than most. These gray hairs on my head just won’t seem to shift, and it makes me feel old, and yet when the little death took hold of me earlier in the day, the way I kicked my legs and shot my stuff told me that death isn’t here just yet. Most just go with the flow. They accept their benign freedom and do what they can, but such meek acceptance of fate just won’t do. Mild love and pleasant kisses are a cancer as is the belief that this system is a system worth sticking with. Obedience is death, as are all attempts at fitting in. Those that accept what they are given are the enemy, which is pretty much everyone these days.