Thoughts From The Brown Couch

Things haven't seem so mixed up in a long time. If the words existed that could convey the acid in the pit of my stomache, maybe I would be able to nail it down more succinctly, but the best I can do is to say maybe it was all my imagination, until I find some sawbucks in my pocket and I realize it wasn't a dream. Anger and frustration are the most apparent guests, but since I am only picking over the bleached bones with all the meat licked off and the blood long dried, it makes perfect snese. I'll tell you now, I can already tell you the wind is blowing in from the Atlantic, even up here in the mountains, you can feel it, smell the salt, dread the rising tide of everything that is coming.

Would it be any easier if I wasn't here? I can't answer that question, except with the usual warnings of isolationism and pride. Since I don't know, the smart money says that maybe I can find a place to go soon. I need to get out of town before I strangle myself. Everything seems like it is dead or dying for me here. Is that too strong an image? Am I overemphasizing how I feel right now? Maybe...I look back and read a lot of what I write and it makes little sense, just gibberash and random shit...Not a lot of good in the world this morning it would seem, though after my big winnings last night, I'm a step closer to easy street... I'm going to stop writing before I say something I regret. Suffice it to say the anger sharks are swimming around my head, and I need drugs and cigarettes and food and a new mood...

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