Bring me the Head of That Fog Wall.

In general I don't "write" when the events in my life are moving along with no suspense. I "write" when I have a choking ball of venom threatening to treat my spinal fluid to a black flood of retarded heartbeats, wasting everyone I care about with a juvenile preoccupation of death camp impressions.

There is no remedy to these attacks. No plausible sentencing of my criminal thoughts will alleviate the psychic stench of my over-bearing paddle toward solitude. There is only knowing that sane revelations truly do come from fantasy-driven orderlies....

Poetic justice floats like oily residue on thick swamp water beneath me. My rick-shaw boat, stops in, gets analyzed by the local witch and Moves on to the next weigh station... undetected but feared just the same.

I am a dog. I am a dog. I am a dog... with no hunger driving me.