My rituals for feeling something like good are getting more and more elaborate, more demanding. I must wear more and more jewelry before I leave the house. I must eat, and constantly, and not drink alchohol. I've got this great hot rocket instead of a mind, choking on all the things forgotten. My old solutions don't work anymore. They make me feel ill instead.

Maybe it's the dark moon brings this black, I don't know. Behind my eyes smarts. Says things like, 'lets not have any more.' There is no reason for this.

There is only... tomato soup. A book smeared in paint. Some other possibilities.

Too much, more.

<<agé chose>>

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