Ahh'¦just when I thought maybe I wouldn't write again

(to cure my distaste for the world I am reading Nausea'¦instead it just confirms my beliefs)

just when I thought I would maybe never write another word again this Spoiled Ink thing pops into my mail box now I have purpose'¦I have meaning and I will open another beer

like that Li Po kid I write my pomes and send them down the river, light them on fire, use them for toilet paper (I am poor) or just give them away

once I have written them they are done to me they no longer exist (I felt this way before fucking Sartre) I write or feel the fear and doom creep up

It is the same as drinking, fucking, smoking, breathing, eating, trying to understand

I must or I will simply fall away

So this is my mission statement'¦ I will tell you absolutely everything and nothing I will send you down the river But I will not use you for shit paper I will leave that for the people around you You know the ones'¦they tell you that this is pretty and that is not They say what is and what is not

I have a stick next to my door and as soon as I hear them walking up I vomit then open the door'¦