I've been writing dark. Writing dirty. Not nearly as profound as riding dirty. Profound is the wrong word. Provocative? Every day at it has been like riding down a highway in a two place coupe with a devil in the passenger seat. I think it's simple depression. As simple as depression can be. Swallowed whole by history. A bitter course. I don't know if it has to do with a ninth concussion (counting the ones I can remember) or if it's just the holiday press.
It's hard to tell sometimes. Wrecked my bike again a few days ago. It was a pretty bad trip. It made me sad in ways I didn't think it would. Aside from the disappointment of the failure. I just burned. I burned hard over a lot of things. Stutter stepping. Toward understanding. I guess the brush was tougher to swallow than I thought. It was easy to shake off when the adrenaline was coming, but since then it rolls me on and off like a riptide.
It's just,the pain of being, the knowingness of what that being is, can grow hurtful. Explosively so. It's easy to ignore the pain a lot of the time. Life as artifact. But trying to punch it up. I might be a bastard. I might be a jerk off. I might be dumb. I might be obsessive compulsive. But a sour puss, I am not.
Clean with alcohol only. Do not attempt to replace blown fuses. Do not remove access panels. Return to certified mechanic for regular maintenance. Made in the USA.
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