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narcotics, please

The saucey new receptionistas invited me out for drinks after work this evening. But they didn't seem especially interested in what I had to say as we sat drinking in the bar. So I fell quiet and watched how light entered and exited mirrors.

I drew a picture on the back of a coaster and gave it to one of the ladies. She glanced at it, then set it on the table. She left it there when we rose and exited the bar.

Our friend drove us to Market Street. The ladies chattered at each other as we headed toward the escalator. I said good night to them. They each gave me a hug. They are both very lovely and very female--but I felt nothing as they hugged me. I just wanted to get away. I said good night and escaped into the subway.

I am so goddamn frustrated with you people. With everything in my existence. The only meaningful relationship I have is my internal dialogue with books, films, and records. Sometimes that's more than enough; other times it feels empty as I suspect I lack a fundamental understanding of life and all the humans trapped in it.

You don't have to die to become a ghost. I did it by just being real still and real quiet. People may talk about you as if you aren't there. And you aren't, really. Just some semblance of what you never believed you would become. Or unbecome. My echo doesn't stand a chance in this world of echoes. It will settle at the bottom of a waste can to be filled with garbage and unwanted drawings--and later: manuscripts and notebooks and drunken eyesores torn and pasted together.

FUCK THIS, FUCK THIS, FUCK THIS. I will continue drafting an exit strategy. I believe a portal exists in the quiet hours before dawn. It keeps shifting in the blue-grey hills and fields of this internal landscape. I keep searching for it, but this map was made with best-guesses and approximations. This could take some more time. But I am a patient man--even as I shake with frustration.

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