I guess it was mid-june when I felt I was missing the literary limb.

Before that it had been slipping by degrees, but around then concretely I felt my number was up and sent the shudder all the way to Messages From The Big Rock Candy Mountain in the form of half-comic, half-deranged alcho stuff.

Bad writing followed worse writing. Unprintable guff.

There was nothing left to say and I was backed into a banal corner of my own making. I had made clumsy inroads and the fevered, good draining of the salts seemed close to a finish.

Bought some Henry Miller, ate that and tried again, binning the results as I went.

Nothing but the open trash and the wondering. Washed up, a year after first tapping a keyboard to lay down the dirty facts of the past and the worse blights of the present.
Write about what you know right?

I never wanted to do anything as badly as this. I have have never drank so hard as this or missed anything as badly as this. Given a chance via friends to put something however vague into words and I have been shitting over it.

Tonight, laying in bed after a few medicinals I threw the whole thing around and realised that anything even vaguely resembling Art or Honesty should be flung out without edits, trying to be clever or any of the things I despise.

One long piece of vomit.