something forms

it’s another late night puncture wound, blood loss, clot, whatever. as much as I feel like writing, I don’t feel up to writing all that much I don’t think. I’ve no idea. I miss a lot of friends, some who I think have abandoned me completely. they play such an important role in all of this. and how lonely it is on the train sitting next to strangers and reading stupid magazines. I am always reading something though, if only a couple pages a day. like Kafka for instance, how healthy for me! I’ve concluded his notes were all about this hell that we’re living on earth. there was nothing ever cheerful in his tone. I assume he was even lonelier. I can read his stuff, and well, all kinds of stuff, and it helps me get through knowing I’m not the only one suffering the same kind of thoughts. I probably do most of my writing in good old fashioned ink, though I do like the speed of the keys, and from time to time I get on a role and write for a good hour or so. it’s rare. saturday night I put myself through a question and answer session that went on for a good bit, putting me in a very “talkative” mood. the next morning was not so easy, and I was not successful. writing at night has its charm.

now I’m just thirsty. I have to be honest. I have to say that too. he asked me a question and I just said no. I didn’t waste any energy coming up with an excuse. I’m going home to stare at the wall. my nights and days are filled with horror, if you really want to know. I’m terrified every other moment, and I’m being forced to look at something. pretty much nothing. which is the problem. life is becoming nothing. and if I were to hang out, I’d be staring off into some other wall. please know, however, I like you like a small animal. take that as a compliment, because I look on them fondly, yes, even though I’m depressed and isolated. this is the Red Cavern, my new book carnage, entrails across the hood and steaming. it’s not place for me even. especially for us both. but it’s all right, I can’t explain it, but it’s all right. I’d rather it be like this, for now, alone, riding the train keeping to myself, chaste to the quiet closed mouth and thoughtful brain. something forms.