These days the wind runs through me. These days all my deeds are done. I drift from imposition to imposition, shift from place to place. I’m only welcomed where I spend or toil. A thing to fill out the scenery. A factotum kept in dust and darkness, a fool to mock and taunt. I just fill the space between deaths, my mind going, my flesh rent and rotting. A weeping in the dark.
The drift from one dismal to the next, cheap betrayals and reckless provocations. A scribble here, a prayer there, the bench warm from my existence in quotations. My day was done many years ago, it’s just piss buckets and counting down now. Another note late in the life.
I started writing regularly again because the disappearing is frightening. The people I love can’t stand me, and the one friend I thought was true thought better of the deal. It was devastating, and continues to be so, and there is no cure or comfort or consolation for it. I am toxic and a monster, and this is how it ends up. It does occur that I probably should stop. Nothing good comes of this. It was the last thing I thought I had, that I thought I was. Now it’s just documenting the antecedents.