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take 2... working my way into my not too distant past. I document the second experience of taking a small dose of something narcotic.

This is where we begin.

I am feeling something come over me. Three mushrooms, one of which was a giant phallic symbol of something. I feel more potent, sure, but there's something else that lingers around the peripheral. The music of scott's is bleeding in, soothing and disturbing at the same time. I know what will happen tonight. I always do. I won't be happy with myself come Monday, but who the hell ever is. Shit will be said. Roads to nowhere will end right after the initial dream of a pathway even begins. Okay. Harder to type. Harder to think. Thoughts will fly fast and loose, my fingers are in control of reality, however one sided and delusional it may be. Is this the truth. The truth has no concept of itself. It's will is just some cosmic force, just like gravity. The gravity of the human heart is the most weighty of all.

It's not what it reads like. I'm hot. She's in my head. I saw her face in the darkness. It was my blanket. Patterns in it. Formed by strange electric connections. Static, electric. The very vibration, that was right. You changed it to something wrong. Thoughts moving into each other, forming something tangible and distant. Hold onto desire and caress it like a love. Something warm and liquid and wonderful. You are yourself the more like dream you become. What you create is drama in the pureset sense. Hold onto that. Create that for youself and others. You can do that, if you want it. Will, at its purest, is all about the individual. When everyone wants, there is no wrong.

Ride the wave. Come back to this some other time. There are highs and lows. Peaks and valleys. Ebbs and crests. You are nothing but a trickle. There is something beautiful in storytelling, but other people's art is not their own. You own. My own. I see art as the foundation, the very essence of perspective. Of about seeing the world one way and trying to convey that. Of trying to distill it down to just that. Make people appreciate it for what it is. I'm so fucked up, and I can type like this. That I can type like this. Most people are gibberish. Most people are nothing. What makes you different is this ability to channel your energy. So channel it. Don't be here, regardless of how petty their shit is. You're inability to speak is a shortcoming, not a blessing. No matter how interesting they are, how cool their stories seem, they are not your own. Remember that. Remember what you can give back at the moment where it reflects back.

Start of the third act. Losing all connection to the self I knew. Can't chronicle. Can't contol. The writing is on the wall. Fly not fall....

Illness is what makes us human. To see someone die. To feel death within you. Imminent and all consuming. It's a fraction of all our lives. It's the culmination of it all. Why do we harp on all the petty bullshit when it is the question staring us in the face. It is the answer to the question.

Why petty. why this? What was I realizing. What was I grasping. Why the fundamental essence of humanity boiled down to nothing. To something. Why does that matter. What is in the making of the madness. Why do people come to those conclusions. What conclusion. That there are only questions. Harp on that bullshit artist. Believe that you are nothing and you will become nothing. But you are not that. This story will go on and get better. Fuck you. Laughing at them. You are no better and no worse. That is why you laugh. It is infallible, laughter. You can fake it, but you can't. It is what makes you human. You can't make other people laugh anymore because true love has left your heart.

Bleed over. The distortions of vernacular and vocabulary comes out of a common ground that is crossed, the threshold that exists between individuals who know everything and nothing. the ultimate form of knowledge, of communciation is surrender.

Here I am. Somewhere at the start of the second movement. Maybe the end. Everyone else is going to sleep, yet I don't feel that pull. I mean, I do. I feel it in me. I know my destination, but I resist. The place of union alludes me. The moment of togetherness, of knowing myself and the other. Being at peace with that. I am not there yet. I am not love. I am wanting love, not wanting to feed of love. I want to fly, not fall in love. There is a special otherness that exists in being outside love. Of knowing some place to go when you are alone. Of finding some sort of comfort in the comfort of others. Fuck that. It's a lie. You are what matters. Your feelings, your emotions. Make sense of it. Make some sort of fucking sense before you fall into yourself. Find some anchor. Find some sort of balance before you fall. Fly mother fucker, not fall. The beauty that exists is not inside you. It's out there. The inner balance is important, sure, but it's not the reason for being. You exist to feed off others, to feed others. Your sense of self is inflated. Your core understanding of other people and other people's emotions is deluded. If you think otherwise, you're a fool. This conversation is not with Andy Link. You're not talking to yourself you high, wasted fool. Hah. You are. You fucking are. Tricked you mother fucker. Tricked you into thinking so. The third act is coming. Are you ready? Are you prepared? Better be. You have to be a stronger man if you hope to come through this okay. Read this some day far from now and feel better because you saw it coming, and you made it happen. Laugh while you can, because it all comes down to days. Expect the unexpected. Decide to make something better, something wonderful. High motherfucker. High on what. Yourself. Life. Make a choice and stick with it. Hard to do in this state of mind. Fly not fall, motherfucker. Decide. Decide. Decide. You can't can you. You can't. You will. Make up your mind. Is this a trace of insanity, or a record of progress. Hard to decide. Hard to comprehend. Stop talking. Okay. Can't. What more do you have to say. Okay. We're there now. How much does it matter to you? Not that much. Put it off. For how long. How long is long enough. You're a fool andy. Andrew. Whatever you are. You're a fool to think yourself worthy. You see the world how you want to see it. Not how it is. Prepare for disappointment. Prepare for a let down. You are nothing but a speck, however grand that speck may be. Peck. What is this nonsense noise I've prepared for myself. What do I hope to get out of any of this? Friendship. Companionship. Love. Sure. There's that. Do I want change. I need it. Do I want understanding. I got it. To some degree. We're all selfish and alone, and that's a very bad thing. I want children. I want that connection to the future. That tangible, immediate anchor. Is that the anchor? Is love the anchor. Fuck if I know. I'm a fool, don't trust me. I talk in tongue. None of this will make any sense anyway. Is art so important to you? Better believe it. Lie it. Work in the morning. As dave says, fuck that. As I say, call i sick. I am sick. Of it. Of the fake plastic self I'm sellling to the world. Of the identity I plaster on to the majority of my mundane hours interracting with this world. I see myself and I laugh. Because that's all I can do. Laugh at the absurdity of myself and my situation. I want for better, but lack the immediate ambition. Do it for love. The moment is coming and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Why do this? Because it is fate. And you know what fate is, however powerless you are to stop it. Because you are fate, are part of it. The fucking ideal of fate. Of entropy, of giving into progress. Hah. Laugh while you still can. Change is coming and there's nothing you can do to stop it....