I am stuck in a narrative I don't even know if I can believe. I all seems so foreign to me. but I suppose it's what everyone does. Fighting off the anxieties you have some so quick to accept. Preparing a world that is drawn around your illustrations. I haven't spent an extended amount of time here, just enough to have the rats and re-sort a room. Though, not much sorting. It has all been laid out in front of me. A puzzle that isn't too complex, but just enough to displace the familiar.
A room without signal. Wooden fragments of book cases. When all those who felt it necessary to remind me of a world I didn't know I had created. Now back in the thick of it... I feel like I should have been much more productive. I ate an old Brooklyn or New Jersey bagel for diner with some possibly older cream cheese or yogurt.
I had a dream of drinking month old seltzer water. It came true. The Polar Springs waiting for me. The smell of dirty rat cages staying stagnate longer than I can remember. All that stands before me is the steps to twenty hours. I wonder how these people think I am absorbed enough to drive to them and re-emerge myself in all that made me wrong.
Who decides what is wrong and right? It must be someone awful that does this to someone. A surgeon leaving it all raw and rotting. Waiting for my needle and thread.
I can't fix all this. At least with my bed four feet off the ground. For now there is '70s French pop music and ability to pretend to distract.
Even my hair brush. Well, oooooooooooooooooo. Brush harder and you will become absorbed in your gentile self. Word to the wise... should have just gone to Ein Gedi and gotten lost in the desert.
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