The Sock-Monkey As Alone

  So the catharsis of survival has a funny way of transitioning back into apathy. That was the punchline. The joke is my life. All you need to know is that I am going to try again and hopefully not get sick before or during the writing of the novel I am planing.  It is is called Lantern Soul. Hopefully I finish it. Hopefully it does not suck.   I don't want to talk about my health because well... I am a unhealthy piece of shit. I weight three and sixty pounds. And the only reason I am going to talk about my health is that well. like me it is the elephant in the room.    I have quit smoking though... thank God because if I was still  smoking I may have had a stroke or a heart attack a couple of weeks ago when the antibiotics hit my blood stream.     I am experimenting with more fractured sentences. Parshely because I a little discombobulated but mostly I am dancing around repeating myself. I have been in therapy almost ounce a week for the majority...

The window reveals the setting son of some last hallucination. While I sit connected to an I-V. I was watching the orange and yellow sky—the bright and endless night of a closing day. A world that will no longer in the revealing of its glory to me, welcome my soul into it. Its dance of light or phantasmagoria of terrors to my wounded reality. "What are you doing?" says the robed older woman standing in my doorway at the UT medical center.   "I am very sick," I said. "I am dying, I think."   "No," she says, "Not yet. You still have a few more days left before you, and I make our embrace."   I don't know who she is, but my teeth are hurting, and I am not thinking very clearly—my hand holding the I-V is sitting on the armrest of a chair in the corner of the dark. I was working on a book, but it does not seem so important right now. So very necessary as anything else.   My feet are swelling from the twelft...