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The complexity, regarding the nature of things, can't really be regarded, and ultimately, doesn't matter, anyway. I had thought, that my days of writing babbling, baby-type shit, were over, up until I started editing my first novel. It’s not been done, the way (she called them pecans) it should’ve been, but, it is getting done. The jazz is playing in my head, and making me do all of these crazy, wrong, things. One problem in particular, which may not even be, a "problem," in the regular sense of the word, in fact, it can be seen as a solution, to most of my ills... is not threatening to, but is literally, tearing me apart. How do we go from that, to this? It is the problem, of what I intend to do with my one life, here, and the one possible answer, that I keep coming up with, obsessing over, accepting completely, rejecting completely, the very next day. This is worse than dying, it even seems to correspond, with the lunar cycle, for crying out loud. Everything points to this, my carcass, the empty, steel hulls, of words, don't mean anything to me, and will mean even less, to anyone else. The possible solution, is a problem, is flawed, imperfect, stupid, really. I need mental help, it's to the point, now, where I can't control this anymore, I'm dying. All of my writing, after the more "shocking," parts, have been edited out (and they needed to be taken out), nothing else, of any substance, remains. This is terrifying, I keep going through this sickening cycle, this despairing, desperation, clinging to false security, with the known absence, of any security. These are issues, so sensitive, I am so forlorn... the suicide itch, the "this must be," declarations, my abilities, unused, unrecognized. It doesn't matter, and it matters. It must be, and it must not, be. I can't do this alone, yet, I must, and I am. I'm sick, sick, sick, in the head, and it's real, not funny anymore. There is no Saint Bartholomew; there is no truth, to any of it. The lies that have destroyed the world, time, and time again, are tempting me, now, again, in fact. It is not a "voice," it is my own selfishness, and narcissism, my weakness. The wah-wah pedal, combustible energy; what kind? Presuppositions, current intellectual fashions, and buzz words, assumptions, biases, vanity, and a whole host of other anomalies, creep into every single, metaphysical question. Where to go, is so stale, and meaningless a (cool, dry, place?) question for me, now, that I haven't asked it, in years. I've ended, and whether, or not, that equates to new beginnings, is up to me, I guess. The obsessions I've garnered, have been with me so long, that they're virtues, now. My brain has lesions in it, I beg for help, and it only makes people turn away from me, that much faster. As for the immeasurable number of mistakes, I've made, I couldn't care less. If they stop, they stop, if I don't, they won’t. I've never claimed high intelligence, as one of my attributes. Where am I going with this, the writing? Well, it doesn't help me, but it is therapy. Errands, on a day like this, would be a welcome break, of routine. If I get fired, I get fired, and that's the end of it! The clock conspiracy, my contempt, aloofness, oh, well. Another one gone, not the first time, and surely not, the last, I broke another promise, it was a promise, too. Just now, this has been "realized," I deserve these faults I have, I'm getting my just punishment, for attempting to skate, and slide, my way through life. This is the payback, that I will be, a squealing, squirting, worm! To make eye contact, or wave, is impossible, I'm scared of everyone, and everything, myself, included. I do nothing, but sit, at work, or sit, in this room, trying to write things, like this, in a way, not that you would, or will, understand, but in hopes, that I'll be able to. My hopes have dimmed, the light has gone out, of course, there is "an unbreakable center," of course, it's always there, and I'd never acknowledged it, but, did know it was there. It's not a soul, but is a type of dual nature/sideshow thing, that "knows," the opposite of despair. How is it, that I’m tired, again? Lies were spread, about a rocking horse.

There are no answers, or cures. Punishment/reward, so it seems. The difference between yes, and no. The (impossible) sex addiction/obsession, well, I don't have much to say about it. It went on for years, and years, but it was all in my head... it wasn't real, but it did have the same effects, as if it was. I thought (through the art of displacement, reaction firmation, projection, etc.) that it was all normal, that everyone feels this way, thinks this way, they just don't consciously admit it, oh, I had all kinds of psychoanalytic explanations, to explain, or defend, my problems. The smell of nail polish remover, permeates the air. You are a lion. I don’t care. Looking back, they were big problems. This is abusive behavior. There will be a whole lot more nothing, for me, I’m afraid. I refuse to be stopped. Really perverted, weird shit, happened, or, was on the verge of happening, not really, but, in a sense. Reading the encylopedia, did me no good, whatsoever. Be love, don’t just sing, or talk about it. So, I'm a pervert, was a pervert... wrote all kinds of sick, pornographic, things, about... well, no stone was left unturned. I edited it all out, or threw it all out, burned it... it's more embarrassing, than anything else. It happened, in it's own way, and in my own world. As for the real world, no, I'd appear fine, wouldn't usually leer, stalk, drool, stare, but... well, the background stories, characters, all kinds of shit, just perfectly lined up, worked out, acted upon. Only in my head, but acted upon. When real possibilities, would present themselves, even actualities, in waiting, I'm the one that runs away the fastest, shakes to the other side of the room, pretends not to see, and the rest of it, all of it, and fuck it, anyhow, but... there's nothing to complain about. I don't feel bad about this, really, any of it.. but, well, I'm not going to delve back into it, re-live it, write it, again, I don't want to, and don't need to, I did, it's gone now, but, it was written. Hopefully, it's all out of my system, I do believe it is, and further, that it needs to be. I'm cured, on drugs, unwilling, unable, impossible, bizarre, a maniac (in short). Keep it moving. The only solution, is for me to amass as much power, as I possibly can, before I die, and wield that power. The friction was supple, profound, the walls, paper thin. This sickening powerlessness, and the striving for it, comes from within myself, and from outside of it. It's almost demanded of me. The near misses, crimes committed, but, that I somehow, got away with. There are musts, that are, and are not, acknowledged. There has been time in jail, I listen to it, hear it, see it, smell it, taste it... what? FAILURE, mine, and everybody else's, I've slipped, flipped, fucked it all up, and if I don't get it, make it, somehow... Oh, but I will, I have to. Chewing my nails, dreaming, delusional breakdown, after breakdown, break up, fuck up, screw down. My failures, my inabilities, my angst ridden, miserable, life. We get what we deserve, let, or allow me, to say that, just one more time; we get what we deserve. We become very scared/scarred, we get our just punishment, we don't like it, we lash out, we can't, and can’t, and don't. Because we're screw ups, sorry, I'm a screw up, I don't know what you are, who you are, I don't give a toot-toot, about you. I'm telling you what I am, and what I'm not, so that perhaps, you won't choose to be this way. Because when nothing, is all you have, and you're an irresponsible, egomaniacal, narcissistic, fuck, you are finished, and nothing remains. I have no hopes, for any changes taking place, that are not within myself. All of my nihilistic, death hunt, in the graveyard, drunk, bullshit, is over... it is dog, versus dog, character, and integrity, versus, what you have to be, to get anywhere, in this world. I give up, gave in, retreated, deserted; bye. We used to get kind of upset.

Serene the bed into hell. No categories, sets, or candles, caustic cerebrals, versus, the sedate, normals. Tomorrow, the fall. In this world, where there are no such things as, or plausible ideas, we're all, into it. Not that there should be. I'm telling you, hopefully, for the last time, that there are no such things at all. We're here, we don't give a shit about anything, except our own boring, shitty, lives, and we'll never care, there doesn't seem to be any way, to really help, anyone else, that I've been able to find. People don't want help, or else, they crawl to a nonexistent, for help, which is not there, only confuses matters, and makes them much, worse. To make this life, where we all take ourselves so seriously, even though we're ridiculous, pointless, specks, on the planet, to roam, and talk, and eat, shit, drink, fuck... all the meaningless things we do, to entertain ourselves, amuse each other, these "ethical obligations," that we find ourselves in, don't ask for... to try to strive above it, make sense of it all, is impossible. To be obsessed with the idea that there could be a place, a way, some possible life, that would make a difference, for the greatest good, of all concerned... we're talking about religious fixation, the religious system. How do I know, that the corrections… her legs were spread, just so, everybody saw. It’s been (ruined, destroyed) overwhelming, for quite some time. Have nothing to do with religion, of course. We just want to have at a better world, better systems, in which to live, and die, in (in/for). This life, as it is presently constituted, is not worth living. Do you hear me? I've been around, as silly as that sounds, and I am telling you, that it comes down to this. I can't live this way, I want to be Bishop, of Bishops, but I'm an atheist's, atheist. This isn't new, some blip, or flicker, on the screen, it happens all the time. To really make some mark, not forever, but just while we're here, is becoming more, and more, impossible, every day. We yelled something. A joke, in academic, circle jerks. Well, yes, I've been down a few roads, and fouled a few things up. Sometimes, I'd apologize, feel bad about it, but, most times, I didn't. Whether I did, or not, had a lot to do with whether, or not, I was caught, if I was caught, I'd pretend, to feel remorseful, sorry, crushed, ruined... I don't give a fuck, about any of this shit. Toot-toot, my way home... for the umpteenth, time. Yes, you're right about me, you, yup... I'm not what I think I am, I'm not trustworthy, I'm the opposite of all those things, not falling somewhat, short; I'm the opposite, of every one of them. I don’t really want, what I say, that I do. Life doesn’t suck, what sucks, is what the human being, did to it, in the name of culture, society, civilization, state. This was pointed out to me, once, and I didn't see it, I was in one con-man phase, or the other. Now, it's abundantly clear. In most all cases, that matter, I contradict myself, to the point where it would be better, to have had no opinion, at all. Let's see, now.. gossipy, flitty, ungracious, negative, rude, crude, rebellious, jerky, wasteful, cowardly, dirty, and atheistic. How's that for a 180 degree, turnaround? The smell, itself, is too much to bare. I buy, go out, and purchase, the Oxford guide, to this, and the Cambridge dictionary, of that, and I mean to read them, but, don't. I mean to call, or stop by, or whatever else I promise, but, I don't. I'm an ass, this isn't funny, or cool, I'm telling you. What was it, precisely? I can't recall, I just fell down, somewhere along the way. I want to un-fuck myself, but it seems like it's too late, I mean, looking back, this has been going on for years. I keep saying how sorry I am, I try to make amends, but it's too late, and no one will listen to me, anymore. There are clues, there has been this fall from grace, this supposed, misshapen, form, unusual atrophy. Low self esteem, but with good, logical, reasons, in which to remain that way. I'm just not a very nice person, which is why I didn’t get the part. Why can’t religion, just disappear, forever, like we do? It isn’t, alright.

"They," can make, even neutrality, seem like this, or that, or way, or the other, for good, or ill, etc. And your point is? So, this is what I do? I'm a "real writer," if real writers, can be classified, as such. Basically, I'm just extremely dissatisfied, and have the time, to put pen, to paper, which is all writing, really is. And at heart, deep down, I know that I'm the exact opposite, of what I posit myself as being, the opposite of this shit I write, even. The ability, and capacity, but, I've bumped up against the brick wall, so many times, and in so many ways.. oh, people like me, are dead, in prison, or worse... which may appear to be, "better" positions, in society. The problem, is that the achievements are garnered, "within society," and then, as a matter of course, one becomes a fixture, a member, a part, of society. Society is fucked up, they, become fucked up, the machine, and all the rest, yes, I agree. To attack anything large, is ridiculous, and futile, especially when I, myself, am ridiculous, and futile. I'm not even angry, per se, I remain rather outside, and unaffected. I don't mind paying taxes, parking tickets, working at a job, paying bills and all the rest... these are responsibilities (I accept). She was modeling pajamas, it became some kind of strip tease. The problem, as always, for me, at least, is one of, significance. My oddities, became something else, altogether. I can’t stand it. The dictaphone measures our skill in breathing, or, the lack thereof. I need to be significant, or, at least, my work, needs to be significant, or what good is it, what good is done? And it will be, eventually, when, I don't know, someday, is what I say , but I'm tired of waiting, and I already know, that the waiting, is always, the hardest part. All these high, and mighty, ideas, from such a physically weak, mentally unsound, morally ambiguous, character! "We'll see," is a way of looking at it, from your point of view. Like; we'll see what he ends up doing, what all these promises and words, will mean, if he 'makes it'. We’re in archival, metric unit measured, hysterics. Be one who changes. I refuse to question what my ass would look like, uncovered, if someone were to walk in the room, right now. Was it embarrassing, to get caught wearing diapers, inside-out? No. What do I do? Well, you mean, what did I, do? Drink beer, beyond that, things did happen, I did do things, stuff happened, that I wasn't in any way, a part of, or aware of... a normal, common, everyday meal. Should I write about some of my phases? Well, eventually, yeah... not quite yet, though. I've given up on life, as it's "supposed to be lived." I will use my brain, and my hand, to write, and write only, forget the outside world, with it's threads, and consequences. I don't care, I will write it down, before I die, all of it, or, a great, big, portion. This is all, I will do, all I can do. Virtual floods, just come into my head, they're from my head, and they just pour out through my hand, and onto the page. It's a need I have, maybe my only need. In fact, it is, my only need. To see, and know, what should, be seen, even though, it isn't really seen, but, perceived. Yes, mistakes, fuck ups, blah, blah, blah, it doesn't matter. I'm alive, and writing, now, intending to publish, this, and that, and whatever else, has been, or is, lying around the room. Yes, also... I mean, well, some of what I've written, was meant, to shock. Just shock, without any deeper, or more substantial, meaning... most of that is gone. I'm not going to shock you, because you're incapable of being shocked. And I'm not shocking, anyhow, I'm a rather simple man, of simple means, with simple, if any, needs. I didn't even believe, all that crap about fucking, and that made up stuff, about whatever violent, petulant thought, or thoughts I was thinking, that particular day. I do whine, whimper, wish that things were different, but I don't really, want them to be, don't really care, about it. I'm a martyr, of my own choosing, and I've crucified myself, or, did crucify myself, until recently, I've cut myself down, it hurt like hell, but, I did it. I'm again liberated, again, a refugee, a man without a country, a being in exile, half man/half woman. Skeptically, we grip the handrails, as we climb the stairs. Should I hunt her down? I went very wrong…