Yeah, I changed the theme again. It’s not in your head. Bear with me. I’m anal.

I don’t want to hope just yet, but as the nine years of incessant morphine begins to leave my system, my mind, my body through poisoned, oily, impolite sweat – when I take it to the edge of what I can bear and a little bit more before I let myself seek the help of a pill just a few steps away so I can just fucking SLEEP without the convulsions… as the happypills, the Stepford Wives pills, the ignorance and placidity drain from my system…

I think, I hope, my words are coming back. My writing, my unquestionable NEED to get my mind out of me and down on anything I can grab (I am NEVER without a pen) and get all the shit inside of me outside because when it has beeen written only then I can release…

maybe that is coming again. Maybe I am writing again not out of honor or devotion, but out of NEED because without it I cannot survive – and maybe the words are coming back.

And maybe, we’re all in for one hell of a ride.

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