memories

memory is a fucker, the way it blur things. somewhere the past has changed, i don't want it. i don't want the present. there is no conceivable future. there is only the relentless of coping, punctuated by naked singularities of bliss.

this was a time of life being out of whack. sometimes i felt on top of the world. i've heard since that this is called "denial". it makes sense. the brain shuts down at times of true crisis, and nothing but the locus of hilarity is active.

the radio plays low. memories. i hear "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" and i am enchanted by its dreamy sadness.