It hasn't happened in a while that I sat in introspection. I sit in a fancy room, alone, puffing away, drowned in lightness. I don't remember who it is that I was supposed to be. This aloneness is addictive. There is hardly that overwhelming sense of self that, forever, hung heavy on my mind. There is bread and there is money; there is no herb; no inspiration; no philosopy; no love.

This hasn't been a life of dereliction. I'm doing things I've never done before. Like oil my hair, eat salads all the time, use a deodorant and exercise. It's all, though, going into a blind alley that I, sometimes, fearfully think wouldn't be a sunset by the beach, and would rather be a bleak mill in the corpus of human existence.

I am learning to be condescending wherever I can, and to be submissive where I should, both in hypocritical terms. It's quite a wonder my laughter is still intact. I smile a few times in the week. I've also been getting intoxicated out of reality, but none of that really permeates into the fabric of the next day. In fact, it is so for the moment I have begun to think I've outgrown substance.

I'm not yearning to get back to who I was. But perhaps I will bore into my roots in time. This I see, out of the scheme of things, out of the roads I am on.

Something's going to push me to the brink, and it's in air that it's probably going to be a excruciatingly painful push.