Restless, yet ... sober, I'm typing still. My heart and mind are not still and are not right. My awful prose of drinking and attempts at death are just that ... typing. I'm sure, analytically I call pull out many fine points and use experience and history to Fruedian-pull out meaning in relations to my ego and superego battling like Ramos and Rommulus, knowing one survives, the other killed by the survivor. I think, yawning now, I'll finish with a more recent doctor who my say that my shoes were too tight.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
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(closing laptop lid slowly)
"oooooh... myyyyyyy..."
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