I’m think­ing this and writ­ing this and I have to say some­thing to some­one but Pat’s busy, Julie’s out of town, and John’s gone miss­ing. Not that they would under­stand any­way. Not that even I understand.

De-loused in the Comatorium is cranked on my speak­ers right now because it’s how I feel. Last week, my neigh­bour told me he’s never heard a peep from me. Now I ques­tion whether I’m push­ing my luck. It’s like I stepped out into the dark­ness of a cool night from a pro­duc­tion of Equus. These synapses fir­ing. The jit­ter­i­ness. It’s ten, I haven’t had din­ner, but I’m shak­ing too much to eat.

I feel like I could write for days and days and days and days. Maybe I’m just happy to have some­thing to write about. Maybe I’m just happy to feel this way again. This self-destructiveness, even in the face of cer­tainty.

A lit­tle clock in front of the turquoise man says I’m away, but I’m here. Talk to me, Darren. Where are you? Only you would get it. Only you know how I feel, because you’re prob­a­bly feel­ing the same thing right now.

We’re drawn to that which hurts us. In this way, we reveal our vul­ner­a­bil­ity, and only those who are so vul­ner­a­ble rec­og­nize their own.

It’s time I turned down this music. It’s time I put some food in my stom­ach. It’s time I scalded myself in the shower. It’s time I got some sleep.

Sometimes you don’t know you’re alive until you’re burn­ing.