so it is morning again. pressure. to walk out of here. through the rain, sky dimmer than ever. you’ll learn to live through it, like other winters. get a lot of reading in, Baldwin, Merton, SDG, … wondering if I am coffeehouse material. if coffeehouse material is the kind of material I am looking for. the only thing I like about tucking my shirt is untucking my shirt. matthew, keep inspiring the living hell out of me. I’m afraid I slip out of myself sometimes, become something I regret. all these people make me crazy. I need plenty of solitude or death is sure as steel bridges.

non

non-chicken soup. no interruptions. downhill skating wears down the tip of my shoe. bare toe scrapes the ground. hungry. angry work memories. they’ll probably wind up offing me if I keep speaking up for myself. the bastards. some say, get me drunk and I’ll speak truthfully. along with a lot of nonsense. I can do all that without any help.

gearing up for a day trip.

annoyance. my head ain’t clear. blame it a junkyard worth of stuff.
pray to God. don’t ask me why. I’m not a philosopher. if you don’t want to pray, that’s okay too. I know how to mind my own business, and I understand many ways of thinking. banished to the non-writing world with non-chicken soup.

the sky is blue and purple and smothered green. pain shoots through the nerves. the agonizing sound of their voices. patience just wears through till it pours. eyes water. check yourself into one of those places where they file you away. one meal a day. eyes water more. to a puddle. chew slowly. pray. who else are you going to talk to. no one should be interested in me . . . let me let you finish your dinner. after dinner reading session consists of the xian saints. in school we would draw on desks, leave notes for the other kids, cheat tests, marker up walls, kick stuff over, sneak out through the cut chain link fence. and we thought that was prison. you should see this shit.