Fifth Wheel of Fortune in Book Title.

I have four drafts saved up for never. I hope they’re published posthumously and everyone can stand around and say, Well! Now! Where are the chairs?
What if I told someone the truth about reality in terms of the purpose and import of sentient ascension against gravitational odds in an exceptionally soft whisper? Do you think anyone would notice which language I chose as a vessel? I’d like to study a broad, brush up on the body language of my infancy. My native tongue forms natural suction on a nipple. I long to pull the silky flesh of a woman’s tit into my mouth for a lucious suckle. I guess I’m a heterosexual now that I’ve divorced and only make intravenous use of insulin and the occasional saline baggage.

OH YEAH. That reminds me of a long overdue criticism concerning neither pleasure nor awareness- heroin is boring & shitty. I can’t believe how little media coverage is devoted to exposing the extremely disappointing effects of and scene surrounding heroin abuse. G’damn, I just kept trying, too. I reached maximum vomit output around day 5 of my low functioning coma state. In retrospect, I doubt I would have OD’d before the boredom killed me.

So that’s that. Heroin is not romantic or sexy. It’s good for chronic pain and bulemia, and not much else. I find it increasingly difficult to maintain an optimism about the human condition.

I wish I had a nipple to comfort me.

Last updated January 26, 2019