Smoking:Marlbro Smooth
Reading:House of Leaves

I told Tyler today, while wondering through the grocery store picking up some chocolate milk and donuts that you are not my refuge. You can't be. Not anymore, that's saying too little. That's making overrated phrases and whoring them to a situation that is not what it is. My heart aches and trembles while in the real world. My mind ticks and my face tics and my heart pumps nothing. My shoelaces come untied and my hair becomes tangled. In the real world I am a mess, barraged on all sides from the bureaucracy of an office job and the bullshit of a lazy workforce. I sign papers and contemplate making up names. I contemplate making up names to my customers. No, you are not my refuge.

You are my outpost.

My eyes are heavy and my fingers are weak. My fingernails long and my teeth go unbrushed, like my hair. My sentences are broken and my English isn't that good anymore. I can't formulate anything. I can't even formulate reasons to get up. But I do anyway, fear is formulation enough. Fear from having no money, from falling away from the greed. I am a long ways from my outpost, now. My supplies are already starting to run thin. I have forgotten how to ration. It's easy to forget when the supplies are usually limitless, too much sometimes. They pile up and forcibly assert their needs as to be sorted through and filed away in easy to find locations. I only ration when there is too much, and only when I need to ration what I have I realize I am totally dependent.

I told Tyler tonight I would either come to the realization that I could function independently again, or I'd kill myself.

He laughed at the extremes.

I didn't.

I join my banjo in the ranks of the busted-up. I enlist all my best men to help me through the day, but the medic has taken leave and the fire we're taking from opposing armies is too much to handle. Numerous troops become a handful. I rattle on my snare and boost morale, trumpeting my praises to myself hoping to convince myself of my freedom. But no. The sun sets and we didn't check to see if the enemy was outside the campsite before pitching tent.

If worse comes to worst, I'll be like the cats and shit in the floor. I'll be found lying on my back in the sun babbling on about my state of euphoria with cigarette burns on my arm and moss creeping its way up my back. And I'll sleep.

And I'll dream.

And I'll win again.

end transmission