‘Sweet Jane’ plays and I am blessed with pathology.
“Heavenly wine and roses, seem to whisper to me.”
I have a Siamese Twin; cut the photograph in half, one half has dead eyes like outer space. The other has the cosmos in his eyes. My Siamese Twin is me.
‘Sweet Jane’ plays and it’s the bridge part, and the sun is glorious, it is blue skied and clear, and at the traffic light there is a pigeon nesting in the yellow.
I am Mr. Headphones, and were you to put me on a pedestal, I will disappoint you; if you were to make me exceptional I would exploit you.
(from Salinger): “When she had replaced the phone, she seemed to know what to do next, too. She cleared away the smoking things, then drew back the cotton bedspread from the bed she has been stirring on, took off her slippers, and got into the bed. For minutes, before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, she just lay quiet, smiling at the ceiling.
(from Wallace): “Grass grows by the inches, dies by the foot.”
Sobriety. I have a dead Siamese twin with dead eyes and who is dead. There is the addict and the non-. No one can pretend either.
Kill the addict, save the imprisoner.
I am walking past Morley Field on the way to meeting, and I want a drink. “I’m on a good mixture,” Matt sings. Makes me want to drink, this.
Heavenly wine and roses speak to me. Heavenly wine and roses. Seem to whisper to me