Without notice, sometimes, my inner defenses lose their grip and I suddenly remember. All of the years come back as salt-water walls crashing down and through. The loss, the death, especially the regret. So many things I can never tell another person. So many people simply gone from memory. So many broken, disfigured fucks, like shiny glass bits on a road of reliquary memories and paisley dildos. I realized some time ago I was quite like many of the emotionally unstable ones, the mental neon signs of people winking in different letters of functionality. Did I ever stop and think there's a reason I covet the company of disturbed and/or broken and/or distraught folk? Whores and Christians, Satanists and Schizophrenics.
It seemed so obvious. And makes the fact I am where I am all the more interesting. And makes this emotional and spiritual labyrinth inside a psychedelic cornucopia of deeply quiet green places and black jagged things.
I am a guy with a fuckload of duct-tape for pants and a hat.
I'm going to a concert on the square with Emily and drink some red wine now.