Things appear in the corners of my eyes. I never catch them. These are secret shadows. Often times I think I see a figure, a cat or a person, and they appear to be staring at me. I never make eye contact. My heart has been pumping at odd rhythms. I don't know if it is serious, nor do I really care. I suspect my sleeping "pattern" may have a large part to do with this. I should put myself up for experiments at a sleep institute. Sleep has been an institution unto itself as of late. My dreams have been increasing in length, occurence and sheer absurdity. Last time I slept I was engaged in a roadhouse brawl, throwing adversaries from balconies and emptying full clips of ammunition into the chests of knife wielding maniacs. I can't say I relish such violence so I doubt that any of this has been wish fulfillment. Maybe it is a trust issue I am dealing with, but I can't be certain of it. I suppose I can say that I don't trust my own opinions. What turmoil is this?
The sun is spectacularly bright, the clouds spectacularly white and the sky is a humble baby blue. Hard to believe it was so dark and cold a few hours earlier. To mine eyes it feels like it has been this bright for tens of hours, thousands of minutes. Perhaps it is all the TV that I have sat myself through recently. Maybe I should change my contacts?
Last night I was at the bar. The house band played Hendrix, Clapton and Cash. They did justice to the material, which is always a relief. There is no greater pain to endure than an overly calculated Hendrix tune. In the background every TV set played the State of the Union Address. The truth was spoken in sarcastic tones by the haggard patrons than suckled from the beer bleeding spigots. They hid their disappointment well, or perhaps they have just come to expect folly and have gotten over it. "Folsom Prison Blues" seemed more like an invitation to incarceration rather than a lamentation of time served. On the restroom walls it read: "I will not change until the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of changing." Perhaps this is the last bastion of the free press. Nothing written in magic marker on tile is ever taken too seriously until one has had enough to drink to marinate whimsically.
My stomach hurts, I am going to collapse/sleep. Please, I'd like a nice dream. Pretty please...