Very literally tortured and tormented, when just a man, and now with a certain resulting hemispheric brain damage and an electromagnetic synaptic excess in my perhaps overly visual prefrontal cortex; premises of monasticism throughout this degenerative trajectory prove to me my remaining methodology for viability.

The word “path” is recurrent for me. Having for a time been a smoker I liken my spatial and temporal functions to that geospatial pursuit of an alkaloidal chemical like nicotine or caffeine. I am, in the vespertine daze, seeking Joe. Further, full of rare earth salts and psychotropics, in some diurnally crepuscular meander and drift, a dead reconnoitering of sets and fixes proximal to my self and memory yet with it’s center imprisoned within this ethereal schism of perceptions and dreams; habit and practice now emerge as operandi whilst I, maintained, shrouded, cloistered in mess, yet meticulously precise in my accurate apothecary, find my window is now open to birdsong.