flickers of madness.

running along the peripheries of my heat-addled brain, are not giving me nice thoughts. I am thinking that is the result of going for months without writing at all.

I have to open up the wounds again, I think they are closing up. Internal hemorrhage is a bad way to go. I have to let the blood flow again. Watch it crimson the place up again, then I can play the guitar again. and yes, Write.

Even with the lack of sleep and all, because a decade ago, I got along just fine, and my wounds were raw and bleeding fine then and I slept late and woke up early. and there was this thing called angst; ah, wonderful word that one was.

Things have gotten buried since then and I haven't gotten around to digging up things that I miss more than twice some time or the other these hot days.

Perhaps I should grab my grammar book and hone up the edges a bit, the better to open them wounds again. The funny thing is I'd prefer to watch my daughter hold her toes up her nose than do those things.

I wonder if I can do those things at the same time. Find some balance to it.

guess not.

I can only do one thing in the absence of the other. Oh, yes, this is my life.

hunger and heat.

(AM)

I am off again to hunt the elusive sleep, in this fertile heat. Slumber is rare thing these days, like kisses (the long ones) and yawns (my daughter's). Like enough money even.

(PM)

And I found a poor man's sleep, scraggly and threadbare. Barely there, but I took it anyway. And woke up weak and hungry, scarcely able to push the buttons on the remote, so, I just lay there, imagining you, and Rain.

near enough to bask in your warmth, even in this heat.

and be home again.