I Can't Even Trust My Own Imaginary

Life Is Absolutely Horrific, Leading Up To Absolute Horror.

It's Not That He Lacked Poetry. But His Poetry Was Of The Body, Not The Mind. He Spoke It In The Way He Moved, The Way He Held A Hammer, Rowed A Boat, Built A Fire. I, On The Other Hand, Was Like A Brain In A Box, A Beating Heart In A Coal Scuttle.

I Was Pretty Far Gone, But Not So Far Gone That I Thought Anyone With Half A Toehold In Reality Would Think What We Were Doing Was A Good Idea.

And After Awhile Of This My Brain And My Body And Every Single Inch Of Me That Was Alive Was Flooded With The Feeling That I Was Starving, Starving For Edmond. And What A Coincidence, That Was The Feeling I Loved Best In The World.

Ask Any Comedian, Tennis Player, Chef. Timing Is Everything.