You ought to know Vic, your lazy gun, your ice, laconic and slavering as the years spin by there's a price for the indolence. People come and go, you don't even know. Do you hate your fortress yet? You rarely speak to anyone except yourself.

I thought that was fair...justice.
And thus the scales gather dust. What does a fox say to shadows, when there's nothing left?
I'm sorry, perhaps?

Everything is always my fault. No action, and of a sudden I own it all. It makes sense in a twisted sort of way. Blamed for being an alcoholic, next to dead. As if reality's mudflow shitshow wasn't in on it. Bah

Razor in the air, you breathe it just as everyone else does, yet they blame you when all of a sudden theres cuts on your skin.

Appear and disappear

Feels like im playing whack em all with your posts

Rar

Permanence isn't my strong suit. Got a lot of shift

Are you even reading the self pitying bullshit that's crackling shameless across your keyboard right now?

I-

I was out in the shadow of the mountain in the middle of a lightning storm, the kind in which there's soft rain and clouds sullen. Something told me if I got out of the truck again I'd be struck dead. This was after what I called the 'Crush' of course, the door that destroyed my hand. I was fully cognizant of my own mortality.
And do you know...I got out, carried the box to its destination and-
I survived.
Did I want to die? People say alcoholics are so selfish, yet sober with a pint of vodka at the end of the day on my mind it wasn't about the future, the past, even the threat of the present. Being itself bears such a hateful weight. It's a darkness, a hope and a hunger for so many things.

Some things leave the body along with the acetaldehyde fumes right.. like co2 and otther

Ships in the night. I get what you're saying, the above is my last. Nightcap, then-
Oblivion.

Goodnight

What?
You're dead Vic. Accept it. Clegane and fire, a broken sword, shattered legs and a dead dragon. The mirror shows a man pushing forty, and that look in your eyes are a slanted ghost bloodshot.

Is? Us?
Justice. For all the miles it's strange...you deserve it. Got hate?
Strange. I sort of do.

Holy shit this is so yellow

Yes it was drawn on a sticky note. A yellow one.

I got ma phone as black and white with a blue light filter on fool. Looks like an ebook reader. When i turned it off the yellowness hit me like a fedex truck

On full

Full is a step van the size of a small house, around three hundred packages, everything from furniture to t-shirts. It's a shit show on six wheels, sometimes snowing when it's what they call peak season, a nightmare encased in steel complete with the rumble of a diesel engine. Ten...eleven hours of hard labor to dream of home if you had a hundred and fifty plus stops. It really sucked. And when it snowed and you had to chain up-yeah. Oddly enough, if all that hadn't broken my physicality I'd still be out there. I can't say why...what kept me so addicted. It was a way of life is my best guess, the thing that defined my 'self'. The worst part is...I'd go back if I could. I feel so lost without it.

My mind survived. My flesh...didn't. People talk about their bodies as if such is a separate thing- I still don't understand why. The relationship between consciousness and physicality seems so inseparable to me.

Easy to wax lush and soft with the philosophical fluff of a guru I guess, though there's a darkness out there they'll never know.
Ah well.