I haven’t written as prolifically as I used to, but life isn’t ALL about create, create, create — there are pauses, too — something I must incessantly tell myself. Nearly as incessantly as my rampant drug use. I am sitting here at a park . . . All alone on this dreamy night. Where the winds tickle my ears, and the leaves fall upon the blacktop just to try to awaken me; it cannot, however. I am still asleep somehow. Everything I have seen is simply dreams mixed with dreams inside a dream’s dream, and there isn’t anything I haven’t already seen, but I can’t remember to forget them. Or, I just forget to remember them. Whichever it is is supremely unimportant; the fact of the matter is that is irrelevant is relevant as the knowledge of what you don’t understand. I am progressing. As I write, I think of drinking. Drinking leads to sinking. Sinking leads to my extinction — am I alright with that really, though? Sometimes, the answers won’t come when the questions fly. I have an answer for almost anything, except for what it means to truly finally at very last to be to be to be nothing, nothing at all. Even that is just too far out for me. The words seem to be better friends than the friends I once had. They have words too but can be truer than the ones I speak about myself? Perhaps, if I am dishonest with myself, but to continue in that sort of denial paves the road toward my end — to the end of my well that I am so adamant I am already forsaken to. The heart trembles with fear, what a powerful, yet powerless person. How can one have such a hold on my mind. As if from some bizarre witchcraft I am attracted to poison just as sirens lure the men to their rocky graves. I dare be grave as if this meeting will send me to the cemetery with my epitaph in the obituary. I once dreamed and dreamed and dreamed of death and its curdling, cooling embrace. I still long for Her like a pup longs for its mother, or like the ocean longing to see the bottom of that abyss. As the trees still green themselves in folly, with the oceans breathing and seething salty, sultry air, and the insects instigating, inspecting although never detecting anything at all, I sit alone alone alone. Like the pines that wine and weave amongst themselves into drippy, emerald portraits of nature. I am melting melting melting into a puddle of murky disgrace; the face contorts and distorts with the eye the image and the world behind the glass just flies. The Stars overhead, where nothing above begins, but in the end they were inside but I didn’t figure that out until too late. I traveled throughout the universe until I melted into that puddle amongst the boughs and brambles and bustling color I smirked because I once again thought I knew it all at last.