Fruits of a Labor and Where We Left the Bodies

I drew some pictures for you. I like the colors. I was in a kind of bloody soil mood and the taste was not to be denied so I didn't.

I don't know what to say today. It happens. I don't really know what I'm thinking tonight either, but I'm doing it with clothes on. Oh there it is. Found what I was asking for. There really is a certain security in sleeping with clothes on. It's a completely different quality of sleep. I feel a real security in the closeness of the clothing that at the same time can grow to be entrapping. Whatever. That's kind of stupid. When I sleep with clothes on I get hotter and hotter and then my dreamworld flies seriously out of whack and scary things happen in there and, not that I've been able to exercise control over the individuals and things that happen, but what security I do feel in the reality of the landscape dissolves into chaos.

Across the bridge of consciousness, the ground is just as firm and even more comforting in its expansiveness and unrestricted isness. Much more so than here. I prefer to be there. So when things get screwed up there by what happens here it becomes particular upsetting. Especially when the solution is as easy as taking off my pajamas and going back to sleep. Because the only limitation on the place is that I can't be there forever, I can't get stuck there like I get stuck here, its particularly aggravating to end up wasting valuable time. Its enraging.

At any rate, the public transportation there is strange. Not really screwy as much as it is that things come and go on the subway system that I sometimes prefer not to meet or see. Usually everyone minds there own business. I never used the trains there by myself because whenever I do I end up getting lost. Just the other day I spent the entire time I was there lost in the subway system. At one point I got so sick of trying to get the right train I climbed down off of the platform and decided to walk it and I don't know if those trains run at the speed of sound or what, but it took me five hours to walk between train stops and then, of course, by the time I got back to the stop I wanted near the apartment complexes I nearly get my legs cut off by the train I was tired of waiting for. I think that's really my only complaint about the place.

I was thinking about the best way to burn down a house with the people inside it without giving them a way out. It would take a lot of effort. It wouldn't be easy for the logistics of a floor plan and unless they were stone asleep they would probably hear you hoofing around in the grass with your arson kit and caboodle. Definitely low on the list of ways to solve problems.

We're altogether now and I'm happy for that. I hope it lasts forever, but I know it won't. Actually that's not even true. I don't hope it lasts forever. It just felt like the right thing to say to express the glowing feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know things have died up there in my head. But when they die they don't get buried. There's no cemetery up there. I should probably take care of that at some point. I wonder if that's the thing. When you finally die it's because your head is full of bodies and there's no more space for anything else to live. The casualties, relationships, dreams, efforts, ideas, whatever, all the bullshit that mattered to you and no one else that no one, including you, could resurrect with Dr. Frank and a million volts of Earth's pulse pile up and some people bury them one by one and some people have to bury them in mass graves, but they're there. I'm just glad they don't talk too.

The poetry has cut off in a new direction that I'm enjoying. It's stumbled on a rhythm I'm rather liking. Answers are as far away today as they were yesterday, but I'm not really looking for specifics anymore. I'm not sure if I should be. It's not that I want to care about concrete details of living a life, it's that I already care so much about things that so often stand defiant in the face of description and I'm focused on trying anyway because that's what is worthwhile. Maybe it's what I'm here for. That should count as something important. The cats came back. In lesser numbers this time. There was a day I thought I could see individual molecules of air. Turns out it was a whole bunch of blood vessels in my oculars. Is that a word? Things here would probably be so much more important if things across the bridge weren't equally so.



No fruits of the labor yet. Or maybe there is and I just have no idea where it lands. At any rate I'm content to keep doing dream work where the wild things are. Where up is up and down is down and I'm remembered by the people I've seen and I can go anywhere and the only limitation is my body and sometimes not even that.

Still planning the suicide diary. I know right. It is taking forever. I'm not putting it off. I just haven't been here to do it. Promise.

///Unkle feat. Big In Japan - "The Answer" ...perfect weather...

Take it Down a Notch and Classroom Politics

Does the word "it" get capitalized in that title. I'm not totally sure, but I don't think so. So what's new today that was not news yesterday? Not a whole lot. Trying to keep the language clean as a habit. The F word was mingled in there two sentences ago, one sentence before this one, and I had to perform a mental edit. I guess the thing about the mental editing is that while I may be making myself more readable I feel like I am nailing doilies to walls that I have clearly punched holes in to hide the fact that there was an extremely violent outburst and it feels stupid to do. Almost as stupid as dancing with myself in a tutu in the mirror and pretending that I, outside of the mirror, am not wearing one. That was too much.

So the poetry has gotten a little out of hand this week. This is true and entirely my own fault. Or actually, I should say, entirely my chemistry's fault. I had nothing to do with it. I should be so fortunate as to be able to assemble and plan days of literary vomit, and the thing is some of it really is just vomit, but the best thing about throwing up is that the only thing left when your bled out is the thing that matters the most. The thing that giving up in words takes away from your interior and is thus valuable beyond price tags or comparisons or in any other way that value can be assigned except in time and energy lost (the purest value).

I was thinking the other day about models of punishment and something occurred to me (I hate spelling that word). Do you remember in elementary school when the teacher would hold the entire class responsible for some little shits antics? Do you remember how no amount of collective loathing changed his ways and more often than not had the opposite effect on the little shits reasoning? I still do. I still remember not being allowed to line up for recess until everyone shut the hell up and there was always that one bastard who just would not shut his mouth and the teacher would let us go after half of the recess was gone out of sheer pity for what he/she thought the repercussions might be. Sometimes, thinking about that, I wonder if he/she would have ever let us go if she knew that unlike the 40s or 50s or whatever older and more violent and more liberal years he/she grew up in (in terms of acceptable violations of the myth of personal space) the little bastard did not receive any sort of mobocratic beat down. Sometimes the world today feels that way.

Somehow it seems that everyone should be holding someone responsible for their behavior that is damaging everyone's ability to go to recess on time, but no one does. I don't know why that it is. I guess the thing about it might be that "how far is to far" comes into play. If someone bullies you but they never make you cry and then you eventually take the time out of your day to beat the hell out of them and kick their limp body into a puddle of mud is that too far? Your cumulative suffering is still probably greater than their momentary shaming. Isn't that not going far enough. Sorry Brian. I still fucking hate you. If I ever build a time machine rest assured one of my stops will be 6th grade, Maryland, south Bowie, 12:15, my fist, your fucking face. Sorry. I just hate how that whole idea of every member of the group is responsible for every other member of the group has been and continues to be twisted in on itself in perverted ways that make the workplace hell and how it starts at so young an age that it's difficult to imagine any other way for things to be.

I'm taking the poetry down a notch from this week. I basically doubled my output in one night as a result of ... I'm not sure. It happens from time to time. Things just blow out of me like a shotgun to the back at point black range and I actually do apologize. Stability is the cornerstone of something. Just nothing I make. Here's a one liner for your next cocktail party: stability needs capitalism like capitalism needs classim. Haw. Get it? Do you see what I did there? Okay, bye :)

///Aphex Twin - "Bucephalus Bouncing Ball" I am playful tonight in ways I wish I could feel every single night of my life and share with the universe and it's bastard long faced serious denizens who think so much of .... wow that turned really angry. I am playful tonight. Stop. Love you, Aphex.

p.s. I'll draw you a picture next time.

dear (______):

Dear New York City news media,

I care as much about the Yankees in a post season as I do starving children in the heart of Africa. They both are the product of terrible systemic problems. They both will cost millions of dollars to fix from one year to the next. They will both work themselves out to a point where no one will care again. And they will both have the same terrible systemic problems next year. Yes, there's drama, but how much of it is real and how much of it is picking at a sad scab for the sake of watching it bleed until it scabs over again?

Beautiful Image and Music Launch (@ Factory Lube)

Hai,

I've got something special for you today :D "The Music that Makes the Living" is the music chronicling blog. I tried to make a feed of last.fm and it didn't track it over time. So this will. That's it. the background was more difficult to make than I thought it would be and then it took another hour to set up the colors to play nice with it, but easy isn't worth wasting time on. Had to hit the dimmer switch. The original was like a unicorn came on an automated welding machine. Which was awesome, but unreadable. And easy isn't worth doing unless it's video games. Hard video games make me want to kill other people. Next up is suicide diary. Productivity is sometimes it's own reward. Spoken like a truly conceited fuck. I definitely take that back. Sometimes distraction is it's own reward. And that reward is only as good as the alternative is potentially bad. That is what I meant to say. Suiterate.

///Four Tet - "Love Cry"

dear (______):

Dear corporate world,

Remember when major sporting events and venues had names that actually related to the history and tradition of the event and venue?

I hate you (with a passion (because you are so stupid (it makes my body hurt (that and the drinking (which is largely because of the twilight zone you've created (thanks (but not really (because you'll never have to live in it (suit jacket idiots)))))),

xo

The Fall and Collective Effort and No Cussing This Time and Craigslist (Again)

Do you ever get the feeling that you're falling and then it changes to a feeling of being pulled into the jet wash of a landing airliner feet first and then you realize that the ground isn't moving, but the sky is and you get sick anyway and you fall face first onto your front lawn and dry heave for ten minutes and then realize that you probably should have just stayed inside to begin with?

I get that feeling sometimes.

So tell me, would you tell me if I had a really bad idea? No? Great. So I was thinking about writing MF Doom a letter and including in that letter a proposal to become his intern. Would that be crazy? I think so. What if I wrote a letter to every artist and writer I admire with a similar proposal. I don't really want to make money as much as I want the opportunity for exposure and guidance.

I was also thinking about using craiglist to find friends. I think I mentioned that before. Maybe I'll meet a murderer. That would be interesting. Probably bad news, but interesting. I mean, I wouldn't be going out specifically to get murdered, but I'm not entirely sure I'd be completely opposed to it either. Maybe I'll try and use it to move my wares.

A friend of mine is kicking my ass to write a novel. I started one. I'm about 8000 words in. I'm not sure I'm going to finish it. No, scratch that. I am going to finish it. The problem is that I don't particularly care about the characters. It doesn't make it that much more difficult to write. It just doesn't make it that much more interesting.

Now that I'm back together I was expecting sunshine to come flooding back in, but it hasn't. I'm not really sure if anything else is really missing. I was thinking about emailing my old professors to show them my work and ask for pointers. I emailed them once before and they basically unanimously panned my plea for assistance. It was shocking. I don't think I've really recovered from that. What lesson could they possibly be trying to teach me by not responding at all? Well, there was one response. The response was essentially a non-response, but a statement of non-response. I can respect that. I think.

I've noticed a warmth in my skin. I can't tell if it's just the sensation of my blood flowing against the temperature difference of my cold muscles or if it's just feeling warm. I can see why they wanted to put me on medication. It's not like I don't need it. I also wonder if 30 will be any different. One thing that has stood out over the last few days is that I've been living in a situation where everyone tells me to do something other than what it is I know I am built to do and do well. I think I will still make the suicide diary and the music hit list. I'm thinking about moving north and the ways in which I can make that happen. I want to order sex toys. Actually, so I was considering posting to craigslist about my thoughts on a cross country migration. I don't want to move to Pittsburgh until I'm completely ready to die there.

I keep talking about craigslist, but I haven't done anything about it have I? Well I will. I did some drawing today. Do you like it? I kind of do. I cleaned up my language today too. I miss the hospital. They were so constructive there. And I earned the right to stay up past 9:30 to watch the video of soothing sounds and star fields by going to start your day group everyday for two weeks. I even put together a jigsaw puzzle. I got a sticker for that. Not even joking, it was a pretty awesome feeling. What day is it? Remember that song that was all about little things the narrator learned through his life? That song got played so much it became sickening.

I sent an accidental email. No response on that either. Maybe I'll shoot an email to my old therapist. He always knows when to shut the hell up. Pardon. Sometimes I wonder if I'm dragging my feet about writing because I know when I have nothing left to say I'll very likely not put up with the hassle of occupying my body. I ran through a handle in 4 days. I'm going to make a terrible father. Well, maybe not. I slept with the lights off after I stiff night of drinking. It was the first time in a while. I've been thinking about winning a writing fellowship for some time. There's a certain validation of efforts that comes from winning. There's a certain confirmation in other people telling you "yes, go forth and do this thing because you've earned it". What I've come to realize is that I'm in one. It's not ideal. It's not glamorous. It's full of distractions. The desk is terrible but, it's my desk, and it's glamor enough, and distractions are inevitable. It's my fellowship.

In my dream last night I got into an argument with someone about the word 'suiterate'. It's not a word, but the guy made a very good case. The odd thing was as we were arguing and for some reason smoking cigars while we walked the streets at midnight near the el trains, a cat, a Tabby, came tearing down the street in a motorized shopping cart that couldn't have been more than a foot tall. The little guy was really moving and the man I was talking to about the possible uses of a word like 'suiterate' had to jump out of the way as this thing came screaming past us and took a hard left. We both stood there for a while and then went on arguing as we walked down the middle of a street. It wasn't all that strange.



At any rate, I should go to sleep and try to eat in the morning. I don't know when I started to hate eating food, but I've lost a ton of weight. Used to be 189 and now I'm 170. It blows and I hate doing it, but I have to make myself eat so I can wake up and do things. I love dreaming. I hate being awake. I love you. That's why I keep on. Hoping for some hokey conclusion to whatever this thing has been.


///Way Out West - "The Fall" I don't know if I listed this track already, but it is close to my heart. "And I miss you most of all, my darling, when Autumn leaves start to fall." To my ex, I do miss you most of all though I realize it was as realistic an expectation for success as gunning for snow in mid August. The lyrics are actually from some other older song, but they play well with the, in my opinion, conservative engineering effort. No deafening use of reverbs. No auto-tones. No wind chimes. It gets a little mundane in the mid stretch, but in the end it rewards the listener with a beautiful vocal break. I look forward so much to the taste of winter air and this song in my headphones and melancholy that is so much sweeter, so much more palatable, than the bitterness of the real and present nothing.

How Long Does it Take to Spot a Terrible Idea

Four hours. Exactly four hours and twenty eight minutes.

will work

got an idea

maybe a bad one


pro bono lyricist?

yes. starting now. craigslist.

going there tomorrow

My Dream House and Suicide Letters

My dream house will have a room dedicated to smashing things and cutting myself.

My dream house will have an incredible gun room that will double as an art exhibition plaza.

I'm thinking about starting a suicide diary.

There are a lot of things in this world that I do not understand.

I found my missing piece. It was in the candy factory. I don't go there often, but if I'd thought about the mystery from the simplest viewpoint that would have been the first place I looked.

I've been gone for a while again, but this time it was an unscheduled departure.

It's been difficult not nailing my hand to my desk with the very nice knife I bought at Target. The thing is beautiful. I cut some french fries with it the other day.

I've been poking my fingers into my stomach. I'm thinking about hammering the paring knife into my temple. I think it wouldn't hurt so much that I'd fail at it. I suppose the main thing stopping me from killing myself of late is the threat of a misfire. The last thing I would want is to somehow screw it up and be a conscious veggie. The second thing stopping me is... what is the second thing?

The second thing is the fact that suicide letters never go well. I mean no matter how well they are composed they are without fail twisted and contorted in the post mortem to whatever ends and perceptions the readers had of the writer before the writer of the suicide letter opted out of the bullshit of... what the hell am I talking about.

Case in point: nope no case in point.

I was thinking about writing a will again. I did that once a while ago.

Isn't it hilarious that a Confederacy of Dunces is sometimes painted as a rags to riches story? Am I the only one laughing about that? I mean he's dead. Seriously? You're going to paint it as a fruitful suicide? Is there such a thing? If I killed myself right now and my shit got published I wouldn't read it. Or would I? Self deprecation. Self defenstration. Is that even spelled correctly. God, I hate myself so much. I want to grab my face and just rip a piece off and eat it. Why the fuck did the Army reject me. I fucking hate them. I want to go back in time and fucking attack that son of a bitch on the bus. He was talking so much shit about cripps and bloods and gangs and fags and the least natural thing, while he threw kicks in the air and cussed and spat, was to sit and do nothing. All I wanted to do was fight him. Sure I would have lost because I'm horribly out of shape and haven't thrown a meaningful punch in months, but God damn it.... that's what I was made for. I just wanted to push him right through the wind shield. Grab his fucking nuts and rip them right off his fucking body. God damn it. Fuck Jesus. I am so angry at the fiction of heaven. I am so angry at television. I am so angry at the time that's been stolen from me. What the hell am I happy about? Maybe I'll go to jail. Was there something else? I'm considering committing myself again. I clearly do not belong here. But, the main thing. Does anyone else hear bagpipes? The main thing is. What the hell is the main thing.

There is no main idea here.

Oh wait there is.

Two things actually.

First thing is I'm going to track my last.fm on a separate bloggy thingy. Stupid. Who cares. I know. Not going down that road and don't care to argue. Second thing is every day I don't kill myself I will say why. Also silly. But it'll make me feel like less of a lazy bastard if I do. Third thing. Language. Fucking 'A' I have got to clean that up.

Fourth thing. Jesus Christ, the third Matrix was awful.

Oh yeah, fifth thing.

Kid Rock. I have distilled your song writing algorithm. See below:

America + freedom + woman who left you + freedom - meaning + horses +

nope stopped caring halfway through. Do not give a shit. Fuck you Kid Rock. Baseball was better without you. Put your fucking shirt back on. I hate you. Please die in a motorcycle accident with a cutlery truck. God damn it. Fucking fuck. Is it bad to send people Christmas gifts with your blood. I was thinking about just mailing a baggie of my blood to someone for Christmas. I almost did that once and the girl yelled at me for thinking it. Well actually I lied. I cut myself up and put the blood on paper and had it in an addressed envelope and she told me it would be the same as her mailing me her period blood so I didn't. I don't see how the two would be similar.

I don't know. I'll probably do it anyway.

Is it possible to drink to protect others from

From what.

Who is out there? There's a cat in my room. Well maybe not a cat. I don't know what the hell it is. I've been trying to break a rib to see what it feels like. Multi-fail. I'm pretty sure I punched a hole in my GI tract though. Too much coffee. It'll suck to die of sirosis. Or however the hell it's spelled.

I was going to connect with former co-workers but the half of me that knows that they wouldn't like me if they actually knew me won out so I left them alone.

Happiness is contagious, but axioms are bullshit.

I just want winter.

That's what I want.

Winter.

dear (______):

Dear Montell Williams,

You look high as a motherfucker in your ad for payday loans. Just sayin'.

Whiskey Short and the Newer Braver World and No, Haven't Found Him

My brain has been white washed. There's nothing there. It's like somebody came in for lunch and took the furnishings with them when they left after dinner while I was in the bathroom. Today I kept laughing at the thought of a "race" of Asians. Is that the right nomenclature for that? It just made me think of a race of mole men. A race of super men. And all the other races of things that have graced headlines over the years.

It's amazing really. The only way to honestly cope with this new situation has been to dull my awareness of everything outside of it until the sole focus becomes the situation. If I make myself into this thing that exists for 18 hours out of the day then the thing that exists for the remaining 6 ceases to be and the conflict is resolved. Sure some blood gets shed, but Stalin's cohort put it best about the eggs and omelets and things before they got executed. At least I think I remember them doing that. Is there anything sexy about living in 1984? What about a Brave New World? I think the answers to those two questions are no and yes in no specific order. That's how life becomes manageable. If you think about it the best way to end a struggle is to simply eliminate one half of the combatants. Certainly if the struggle is what perpetuates the combatants lives than you'll end up with genocide by that logic. If you kill off everything you're fighting against you'll have to generate new things to fight against from within you.

In a society more interested in peace than war, I suppose eliminating one half of the disagreeing parties would be a means to an end. If there's no one to argue against then there's no argument. Plain and simple. The hardest part about figuring out where I fit into my own life now that my life is 75% owned by a company that wouldn't give two shits if I died by getting gutted by industrial meat hooks as long as they weren't liable to pay for damages or my funeral is trying to figure out if I'm worth eliminating or if the company is what needs to be eliminated.

Someone sent me a jesus themed text message yesterday. In fact someone else sent me a text message with the words "i hope and pray things turn out." What the fuck does that even mean. I'm sorry, excuse my language. I'm just wretchedly upset right now having recalled that second text message. Here's an idea: lets not hope, lets stop praying, and lets start doing. I am so sick and tired of hearing that bull about hopes and prayers and "I've been there before, I know excatly what you're going through"s. How about we simply appraise the situation from a logical, rational standpoint. How about societal compression. How about GDP that won't quit, but somehow wages don't keep pace with inflation or cost of living (are those the same things). How about getting more bang for your buck and the actual cost of that extra bang you're getting. The bottom lines at companies that somehow don't seem to rise nearly as quickly as profit margins.

I know everyone wants to succeed and somebody will get the short shrift (I'm full of slanted definitions today, but I hope that's the right word). At any rate, I guaran-damn-tee you the bullshit expected of some of the formerly menial jobs that have somehow crept up in demographic from appropriate for teens as a base to appropriate for 40 year olds with 6 years of experience as their base, suck more and leave less humanity in the shells of the bodies daily broken open to sell you your fucking bottle of snapple quickly and efficiently is more than what was required when you, mr. 50 year old been there done that, were punching spring loaded keys on a giant slab of plastic and metal with ink ribbon.

And I haven't found him yet. The motor is still going, but I'm just trying that much harder to hold it down no matter how much it knocks around and wrecks up the place. The week of industry came. The week of industry went. And to show for it, all I have for you is a stilted diatribe about work and a partial understanding of things that don't actually exist and a burning urge to take the steel to good use on the neighbors. Do not fucking talking to me you fucking fuck I will kill you. It's becoming more and more amazing sometimes how thin the tethers can get that hold me to a behavior steps away from thought patterns born into my infrastructure and known better and more intimately than anything learned and what's next. I'll dig them out yet.

That picture. That picture up there? It's a short whiskey. Apple top. Try it. You'll love it too. I want to feel like I should say it's the only thing that makes me feel really warm and fuzzy these days, but I'd be flat lieing if I did. And California totally sucks. Mainly because it's still twilight and happy and balmy there and I hate them for that. That's the real reason why the east coast is more pissed off than the west coast. The east coast knows. The west cost pretends to not know. Screw California.

///Wildchild - "The Wonder Years" I just wish I knew.

Worst Song Ever, Part 3:

Worst song ever # GHQQPXC1333298K6 Moby - Whispering Wind:

I suppose I probably shouldn't go as hard on people as I do when it comes to creative production mainly because I am so familiar with the inherent problems in content generation, especially when the requirement of said generation is that there be a certain amount of freshness. In fact I almost feel bad even including this because I know that every artist has a certain thematic vein that runs through their careers and even the widely disparate U.N.K.L.E albums do have a certain genealogy to them that is absolutely traceable from one offering to the next even though the actual sounds appear on their surface to be absolutely different. This song by Moby is almost able to fit itself into that thematic category. Where does it fall short? Everywhere. I even don't even feel the urge to describe so bland a thing here. In fact, even talking about it here has made this entry extremely bland. And now I hate myself for allowing myself to be distracted by so bland a blanding. I've been blanded. God damn it. I have to undo this. Immediately. But how??? Shuffle button. Clicking. Searching.

I once talked to a friend of mine about the symbolism of the search and shuffle buttons in music players and their usage. He basically told me I was complicating what amounts to a human impulse that is no more or less than the urge to stuff our faces when we're hungry and drink when we're thirsty. There's no subtext. It's simply the satisfaction of a basic impulse to feed our brains with variety. I'm inclined to believe him. I took some convincing back then, but I came on board. I still think he's probably correct.

I suppose the main thing is I'm standing at the edge of the abyssal plain again and trying to distract myself from another night of searching, but I know I have to go down there and look for my missing part whether I like it or not. He's still out there. He hasn't come back yet. I feel ridiculous going through the motions as though things are okay when they're not. I don't want to go. I'm lolly gagging. Just come back! I wish I could say that and make it happen, but I have to go and look. What's the plan then? Where do we industrialize? Bits. That's where. Maybe not. That might be shooting too high. I am so fucking angry right now. If I didn't need my face I would cut it up like a ham. Smash my keyboard into it till the keys stuck in my skin. Thinking about carving up my stomach again. It's getting hard to convince myself not to. Not hard as much as its becoming more unreasonable not to. I don't get it. What's inside of there. I want to turn out my pockets so bad.



///The Future Sound of London - "Vit Drowning / Through Your Gills I Breathe"

Missing Parts and the Person I've Never Met

It's official. Well, let me start off by saying I got very little done while I was away. Now, let me continue by saying, it's official: industry week. Not that I'm trying to make up for anything, because there's nothing to be made up for. I set off toward the horizon with the hopes of finding something and I didn't find it. What's more is I lost a member of my party. So now I'm out almost a week's good night time hours and I failed to make the creative shift and a part of me is still out there in the field and I haven't seen him in days and I'm a little bit worried because I'm heading toward a break and I need to know where everyone is before things come apart because trying to find them afterward is like trying to pick through a trailer park after a hurricane looking for a wallet. I know he's probably fine out there by himself, but I'm not fine in here by myself.

I know exactly when it happened too. He just ran off like a scared horse and I tried to convince him to stay, but that was about as successful a conversation as trying to hang on to a wet dog's tail. Now the sun doesn't come up. I've been looking for him nonstop since Friday, but even that effort has been too big a strain and parts are starting to rattle off and cease to respond and it would normally be a good thing, but the problem is that the things falling apart are the safety switches and breakers and in his absence things are fusing that shouldn't fuse and power is rerouting to things that should not be powered on for extended periods of time and suggestions are turning into directives and the committee is taking sides and no one is telling me what the hell is going on and every time I shut down and restart new things are there that shouldn't be there and there's nightly work being done without authorization. I have to get him back.

But, anyway... I don't think that's what I meant to say. What I meant to say is that this week is a week of industry and productivity. The factory floor is bleak. It feels hollow. I can hear my footsteps echoing in there and I don't like being there with who's still here. I feel like I'm working on something I shouldn't be. Like I'm building weapons, and they're calling them toasters and oven parts and slides for cabinets, but I know what they are. But, I have nowhere else to work.



I fell asleep with the TV on the other day. My dreams were horrible. They started off well enough, but violence came with a fury so unexpected I fell out of bed and hit my head on the closet door. I crawled back under the covers anyway, but that didn't last.



Eventually I was sideways again with the lights off and the television on and half covered. I couldn't go back to sleep. There were things waiting for me there so I sort of just stared at the ceiling for a while. Then I held my hand up and blotted out the tv screen and admired my lines. I like them. Then it occurred to me how lovely the moment would have been if someone else were there. If someone else left the tv on and went out somewhere at 2 AM and didn't want to wake me and I thought about how sweet it was of that person to be so kind as to not wake me as they went and oddly enough I felt loved by the blank blue glow. I didn't go back to sleep after that. I didn't turn the tv off either.

///Amorphous Androgynous - "Goodbye Sky" dreaming at the edge of this world