Pages 1through 17 of The Patient. Available through amazon.com and Barnes and Noble. All procedes will go towards the author's legal defense fund.

An Unfurnished Introduction:

A few dead wires later.

Break down substrate underneath; period of waiting letting up. Not a retraction. Rather, a felt sense dispersion. Noisefog clamoring down, engines shutting off. Turning into an automatic function of what conviction that grew out of the attempt to shrug all convictions. I have become a machine.

How it feels to be something on, an effect severed from knowing about its cause, daunts whomever would want to know more. In difference, having tethered an observation could lend a hand reaching up, higher again. The will to let down casually the strain from stretching out wakefulness comes at the cost of having to sleep. & Those who fear nightmares .. . or the floorboards tearing themselves up, each splinter of wood turning to particles of light shot up, chasing after me standing there still not moving.

 

Witless

No hero. Dreams became cruel lives ago. And a life ago, I swore off of the stuff. Dreams, indeed. That business I left for the weak and gullible. The people who would believe in them. Dreams are the wreckage of a dead day decaying in my skull. I don't sleep to dream, I sleep to let my shaken-up insides settle.
As I whisper last things into the dull I know both that a sliver of hope will remain if all of me becomes washed away, and that hope contains me once I am rendered unable to contain any hope any longer.

It all ends in tears, and I tore her up last night.
She rolled over, waking me, and told me flat as possible that I don't love her. And this after I said not that I do not or can not, but that I will not let myself. No matter how sincere or desperate the plea. I can't stay. Can not accept gifts from those who do not make themselves golden, for it would tarnish what work I've been able to make. No matter how true a believer in my own man- and god-hood, I can not bow back down. Allowing myself to reciprocate what I do not feel equanimity on my own part ensures that a special place of hell will be kept warm for me when I finally go under.

With or without grace on her part, being let down, can I afford feeling guilt in being honest?

When lonely, we look for something to plug that gap of meaning; Can I glorify those dwelling down here with me, knowing so strongly in my gut the differences between us will alienate me in patterns recurring every new situation I find myself awake inside?

Making myself a better man means letting bits of me die. The needs and hunger, the more primal, the swifter I'll be sucked away.

No mater how sharp I keep my memories, so that when I lie awake at night I can metabolize this lie over and over again, we have it bound to us both that we made ourselves forgettable. Even razor sharp, I’ll still fuck up. I am the sum of everything I have ruined.

Come and take it all from me.
Dust still lingers in my lungs. A long time has passed since I fucked things up and even longer that I even tried to go about justifying or fixing any of it. This must be as good of a place and time as any to start.

Thin white lines make up the entirety of her carapace unbarring and unflinching, showing no sign of age, and no sign of any age at all.
'Just incidental'
'What the fuck are you even saying?'

'Just that there's no place in this fucking world for someone like you. You already know the secrets of heaven but you've been so burnt by just even living that you can't even find the words anymore. So you've spent years lower than the cracks in the ground until you either can or can't keep up anymore knowing in isolation. It makes the worst out of you, going after the easiest pieces of meat possible, because they expressed what you wanted to think, vague interest in you even knowing it was just loneliness burning them, too. Haven't you ever told yourself you belong in better places?

Tongue ripped out but it wasn't at birth, it came after everything and with the longing to get answers. So I'd not hunger to know anymore if I was unable to explain either.

"But born to a bitch I'm labor I'd still be a dog. I can be royal or dispassionate in the ease which I cast my nobility, inherited through the blood, always, what they think of, as blood. Not bleeding, just able to; not dying, just ignoring that I'm mortal.

"Just merely knowing I'd live forever scares me. I need to feel it, but first I need to my feel my own arms, to know they're mine. More proof needed, so to live it and then bathe in it. A minor degree of severity, just slightly, not me. Not my skin, but it's there; no one else to claim it, still, I stand, in the same, almost watching me, but definitely watching the outline, glowing phosphene like a bodybag of an astral body, around my mother's body. Her lover is five feet to her right. The package at the door, a change of clothes; if I wash my skin off enough times I'll be healed to points I can't take.

Maybe I should care, but I really won't, recoiling. It's not their wounds I constantly like. The soft, stable suffering of not knowing where the fuck I’ve become.

"I was born to a gunman and that edge I had no say in inheriting. It came with the nerves, the skin, the seed, the germ, the scent of life to remind me that I also have some horrible impingement in me that makes me want to drink more just to forget how bad it tastes."

Witness

Blowing on my hands to keep myself warm takes up enough time to waste as much as I need and had wanted to, and nothing else.

"You know, it's always humored the fuck out of me that if I waited long enough, someone would come, and if they didn't notice me, they'd jump."

An hour on the wall has already gone. With it little else. Not much has left me, the time not taking a thing.
He lights two cigarettes and hands me one.

"Thank you."
"Yeah."
"How much longer?"
"One every day or so."

“Word says people have seen him around just last week.”

“Bullshit.”

“Upset?”
“Impressed. He knows people had him marked awhile.”

Stayed up all night drinking, just as many glasses of this vile junk down my throat as have as many nights gone to waste in a blur before this. No sign of him has come, and my trip here to see if he'll surface at all has come to as much a waste as my body. Barely care if the sun has already started rising. Work to do, and I've started out with figuring out just what that should take.

Wake up, bleed through nose, let that stop and cough up blood for the next few hours to go. But since my obligations have died down as much as my reputation has, the amount of stamina withered concerns me as little as the sheer time I have blown.

A glance to the bed tells me she still lies there. Back to my hands, the small cuts all over my fingertips. They're raw – I have done what I love in having …written myself raw. But said little in the process. This is being idle, and to think I wanted it once just seems like a grave insult against my state.

[No, no. The time put into my writhing precludes any of the writing I have done being without its point. ] ‘Rub down raw..’

Being a victim of my own meaning. If anything will do me in, that notion alone shall do it and swiftly. But I have no idea whether it's because I don't understand a threat I've been left with for some time, or if I understand it enough even now that I've fled from all the meaning that could rip me up raw.
But she takes no time to take anything in, tact evasiveness losing chances of semblance for me. In short time I should come and see that the bare absence- not any shred of a person remaining along with marks of purpose’s slow erosion. To become a victim of one’s own meaning, gaining enough to make a dent and a difference.
"Dear," she says, "you can't just... let me go."
"Should I drag you behind me?"
"I'm like a disease, dear. You're already bound to me, me stained all over and in you."
"How can you do this, believe in someone. All while gushing at how stoic you've become, doesn't it sit uneasy inside you?"

And that was lives ago, really, all of it.
Problems solve themselves, always thought that. Nothing can replace or satiate the urge to reclaim the state which my existence was neither an issue nor the cause of one. If anything has ever pressed me, that has, and that does.
"Don't you…?" she asks, groggy-eyed.
"Sleep?"
"Soon, please…"

Gripping a chance at me. Not knowing I'm about to go, about to burst, fall over, anything to get a reaction, snap life back into me. Motive, I beg anything that could give me.

I'd remember what I replied with if it would mean anything. Sure it went something like what I come up with.
"I'll miss you. But it's important to you. And I have no say in it. It's larger than us both."
"Nothing is more important.."

Greater Dooms/?Destinies

Only the shallow-hearted mourned his passing.
And only days ago. Before she let go of me, just after I let go of her. It started with letting her out in public. I was the one on the run. Not her. My chest the knife would go into if she got found. Not hers.

Mine to;
"Him."
"Oh. You."
"You seem upset. Or that you know me already. I don't know you."
"Ask someone else."

She left for a few hours, coming back in the arms, not very intimately, of Thomas. His stern look set off some stolid pang in my gut, as if in fear of Mars actually walking in on all this just because I relapsed and began to claim his identity were it mine to at all.

"Would you help a person up again, or leave them?"
"Impulse being the only factor."
"Yes."
"It would not made a difference."
"It meant enough to you, trying it."
"Trying me."

"What are you waiting on?"
"Clarity. If anything should matter, it does. Without the chance of it, I'd become content to go about not knowing I tasted it or had it."

"Your obsession with... Do you live vicariously through him?
She continues, walking. She turns to unlock the door. Her apartment, not mine. She turns to me, breaking the silence of the city's noise, too often asking me if I could break my silence, she asks me why I haven't asked her. Fingers pointed different directions.

Trying not to pay attention, just as well I know I'll have to some point soon. Which makes me wonder if I dread it. The thought drops off, dismissed. Not something worth considering.

Although all corridors have differences, they serve the same. Point to point, door to door. Her keys dangling, and her neck, the soft skin with it, looks helpless. Stretching out my back and my arms, I give her a casual hug. I hadn’t seen her all day, nor missed her presence.

Though I just live with her, obligations such as those rear themselves.
“What happened while you went out?” asking with hope or expectation.
“Oh, Taurein,” hoarse, she delivers "Did you find what you went out to get?"
“I did” …“I didn’t stay for the wake.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you, Taurein?”

Thin seconds my fingers all over her and within another hour my fingers have been all in her and she’s been all over the space and sighs and we fall asleep. I have dreams that are swept away like soft leaves in a walkway.
Waking up later, we say goodbye. Illicit and, poisonous friend, leaves a good taste on my lips. I would never see her again. I miss her but she goes dead when close enough. In a blur it went.
It had been an hour since I had last seen her, and an eternity since I have felt any bit certain of my bearings.
I should explain, first, the aversion alongside the conversion.

On a night situated just as any other night could grab to nestle, both lock and key barricades. Just a normal one room, with a kitchen and a closet. There's the familiar scent of this city's apartments, one best described as the faint aroma of carpets baking, I remember this from days far ago in my youth, and days present. Always this way. Comforts me, no other place having this scent. Brings me home.

Standing frontispiece to seduction across from her in her kitchen, tracing her hands as she sets a glass pot of sake to boil on her range. A moderate amount of alcohol lingers collecting in our systems, as we had vodka gimlets a bit before. When the sake reaches a gentle boil, she takes it off, pours it into a container, sets two small shot glasses on her table. She lowers her voice, accidentally mysterious, and asks if I would like to spin a coin with her taking turns. She heads, or tails, can't recall which she would be, only that the first spin landed for her. Her wide-eyed innocent expression stays a mere ruse. She took her shot, gracefully, a ruffled smile in her mouth following the hot rice wine passing through her lips and down her.

The next spin, hers again, and again, and again. The smile which she bore creased into a hesitant expression of reluctance by the time she had to take six shots and me no other. In sympathy, and with iron determination cut into my hands, I offered to take some of the shots for her. If not to be fair, then to compensate. Though her face gradually grew pale, it remained proud, and her auburn hair, richly and glistening, occasionally delicate, sometimes more, looked like something to run my idle fingers through. All became not dizzied, but possibly moreover shifting.

Eventually, the sake runs dry leaving the porcelain container sapped of its solvent marrow. Standing up, her body rising and flowing, her dress the froth of sea with her frame a tower rising from it, with mine. Straightening her shoulders while glancing at my lost eyes, standing there silently, she spun, tapped my shoulder, and was gone, into the next room. I chase her.

Ebb and flow, while we step, sometimes sideways, always in the same direction through the passing of the night, her nebulous figure dances, sometimes chases me back. The room is dark, the lights hit off already. Tagging each other back and forth, we get more romantic, dialectical in a blind sophistication, then a tinge of a confusion leaning to touch takes us over mutually even if not equal in spirit.

“You're it” I can’t hear her whisper but she accuses me, hitting me softly &snow-such.
”No, now you're it” the counter-argument.
”No” she denies, refusing to be caught. I must tap her again, press my shy fingers to her sly body.
”Yes!”
”No!” with her antithesis, wise to each other's tricks.

Breaking from this by pulling her body to mine, not needing to say anything, the passing of cars and our own breathing gives us the only thing to hear. It's calm, dark. A moment passes, and we're closer, lips together, magenta hues hidden under the hush of slowness, and behind a locked door, no one comes. Just to walk by, no one will know what we’ve got. Glancing at me I never gave her a chance to answer. The way she guided my hands down her body and down to the floor where carpet lay gave me the only answer we so needed.

No day and only relevance in what, oh, look, we're on the floor now, my hands. Replying to every subtle finger tip is an intimation of a wordless cool approval of the glowing heat our skin shares. I slide down, our motion lubricated by the thick environs of a closed off room. The lack of light bounces off of our clothed bodies. We cradle each other. We pull apart, move lateral. Edge of her shirt collapses softly into a crevice which my fingers explore, the heaving of her chest becoming waves, and my entity bathing in the amplitude of her sacred space. Breathing in and breathing out, I motion, diving, thrust into the unknown.

We stand up after our tongues beckon the other, all while melting the other's heart boldly and encouragingly eager with a broad tips, spinning. Dizzied when still upright. Pushing her down on her couch, covered with blankets, I lay upon her, descending down. Tracing stars as lips glide, hips pressed me to, clothing between us as friction sets, I let nothing go. Colliding, here we spread.

I don't have anything close to what I would call answers, mainly because I'm in the same position anyone else would be.

On top of it, something similar to tracing my pen around a period just because I've got more energy in my fingers than I do in my compassion, and vice, outside, versa, I thought I would put them out, because I'm not getting where with them, either way, we should share. Or decline having a definite felt lived sense of who we are. If I'm stuck, so you should be stuck. If I'm wrong, so be it, you. Uselessness & Threatening, cutting your own throat, not serving control.

I don't know. Our life is shot through with presuppositions that we can question and we cannot live human lives by not questioning.

Never really did blink fast enough, did I?
But, in the boy-shaped hole, is a limit, that delineation, it knows itself, it's the edge of, or it's just a line, but it's one thing and then everything else, then it's something other and it's with everything else. In the lack of, there's a way out. Because you if you couldn't understand something some possible way, you'd never come across it. It's there. As an interpretive being, you're only as good as the books you've written in a fit so as not to forget a thing because thinking's how we refuse to settle, refuse to stop shaking up or just cease breathing, and we don't atrophy if we keep changing one thing into the other, literally, but limited to literal discourse in that it's dilation that makes distinction possible.

Where I'm a chalk outline, I'm something that's just there reaching out and then the ocean reclaims me, my fluidity changes from fixity to motion again and the word I is irrelevant.
Thank you for the effort spent.

Cleft – or.. "Vagueness"

In the hive dreaming was a duty.
Our old master spent all day laying down the last of the ink he even had. It would mean the end of years spent toiling on some thing much and rightly dear to him.

Long after he had taken the time to write something meaningful it occurred to him in a much more powerful way that what he had done had done injustice not only to his name but that which had given it originally. About a month of dangerous contemplation passed before the old master came up with new resolve and a solution to remedy what ached inside of him. He would go about discrediting himself. Because he would much rather serve as fodder to prove something entirely wrong, wrong, than serve as the figurehead of that very wrongfulness.
Searching through his dusty keep the night it dawned on him, he found some raw ink that had turned to black powder some while ago. With some yellow paper to match it, neither would do.

No store would have open doors at this hour.
So he slept, and with that came new, raw clarity. Upon waking up he found his usually, unstable demeanor upside down. His mind full made him pleasant, the way a mother would say she is in turn.

Proof-sheets/Shot-throughs: God Must be Evil. The Lawyer is not the Law. It is necessary to say just whom we regard as our antagonists: theologians and all who have any theological blood in their veins--this is our whole philosophy. . . . One must have faced that menace at close hand, better still, one must have had experience of it directly and almost succumbed to it, to realize that it is not to be taken lightly (--the alleged free-thinking of our naturalists and physiologists seems to me to be a joke--they have no passion about such things; they have not suffered--). This poisoning goes a great deal further than most people think: I find the arrogant habit of the theologian among all who regard themselves as "idealists"--among all who, by virtue of a higher point of departure, claim a right to rise above reality, and to look upon it with suspicion. . . The idealist, like the ecclesiastic, carries all sorts of lofty concepts in his hand (--and not only in his hand!); he launches them with benevolent contempt against "understanding," "the senses," "honor," "good living," "science"; he sees such things as beneath him, as pernicious and seductive forces, on which "the soul" soars as a pure thing-in-itself--as if humility, chastity, poverty, in a word, holiness, had not already done much more damage to life than all imaginable horrors and vices. . . The pure soul is a pure lie. . . So long as the priest, that professional denier, calumniator and poisoner of life, is accepted as a higher variety of man, there can be no answer to the question, What is truth? Truth has already been stood on its head when the obvious attorney of mere emptiness is mistaken for its representative.

I'll show you weak!
If only I [fuck it], my life wouldn't have happened yet and while just chewing my own arm because I'm in the dark to something no one gets until they get out. I could be OK if I knew how.

Clutch end or just grasping while; I can't find the scissors, sorry. Crawl through the thicket and retire.
The reason why one bows makes the difference between criminals and nobility.
Dream game, bowl of s-? shaped things, the other bowl, full of pieces, the individual board... Dreaming tactful when I used to live on earth, before ascending into demi-god sensitivities, where I could say even the way I bit into an apple had masterful tactics to it. No longer.

A task for a lifetime, lifelong, drawn out not know when to just stop going along with it. If I show anything like me then it would startle others and make both the Hell and the Heaven on the stage make their grand escape/

Certain patterns .. . .. makeshift metallurgy. Anything troubles a person by grace of being present.
I'm believable because I believed you? What? My delusions are yours, too. We make up our convictions, we make the difference because we can destroy ourselves. But we’ve refused to even wake up from this.
The worship of word as god; Those who proclaim Orthodoxy are the most vile and naive of relativists, for they ask not of themselves, "who am I to judge?" but the more menacing, "who are you to judge?" Doling out apostasy in the comfort of their own, taking solace in being the ones to whom truth is merely what is left standing, the heretic makers are those who can abrogate the strict right to issue out by force what is real, power bending and forbidding the true nature of logic, reason, and glorious doubt.

Forever I would keep my glass hero alive inside me, if it just meant I could last that long with it. His name even blurs. His teaching means nothing to me now. Failure tastes this way in a man’s mouth - of metal and of ashes where far more bitter candy used to flow readily.

Feeling of having lost something that wasn't there to begin with except the need to hold onto it for its importance in the light of a lack of...

"Why won't you tell me anything?" she hammers out -- a wake up call, mind put out to pasture, license revoked suddenly, everything on the table swept up, tossed up, put aside, time to be malleable.
Something about Jane. Same night, different day. It keeps going by the same, timelessly. I want to stay clean but I am obscenely obscure askew. It goes too far, the night does, with some sounds and sometimes it resounds also. Like my ears just aren't enough. They're not. They set up the background noise and while I shut my eyes, those are enough. My eyes.
Days slipped off, slip still, and still I stay with her. She goes through all of the motions the way someone breathing does. The times we are still are like, her round pale hips give way to thoughts of.. the desert and I keep wanting to wander off to the desert, too, but this "night feels familiar" enough to give my reins one more time, slave of sensation in all kind and turn.

Day has gone awry.
I lie my head down on her lap. So far fulfilling. That won’t last. The stroke of my fingers now this second striking tenderness as if with an itch, touch but to an inch of my life. The need to destroy suddenly rises up suddenly as it tends to, but I blot it out. I don’t recognize that part of me despite it being there, like the shadow on the wall casting the image of me back at me while

Umbrage constantly at how she doesn’t really seem to have that requisite curiosity when she probes me by breathing near me, but only when I notice how insulted I feel. I just don’t know by whom. Me? That is impossible. And I don’t seem to do much but watch as I go along with sleep walking with the situation led down into boredom to get shot by the bedroom furies calling in sick. Perhaps all of this is slept through. I could pity her but it would go against my previous policy of sapping her as I tap flesh. That takes a strain of stamina I don’t think I have the strength to discover I ever had.

I watch myself slide my hands across themselves comparing the same to the same over and over once more. While she sleeps after we […], it’s sincere and since this point deteriorates atrophies into mere fucking. Her skin doesn’t repel me anymore, so I think definitely I’ll do that job for her. Poor Imogen doesn’t know how much I enjoy or hate her.

Well, as she sleeps, I step out. I keep wanting lately to take up coughing, because edification a cancer-like beating down on memory still goes on &on, there exists such a need that suggests I should make [it] more visceral. I really, really think this, that I am such, but to teach my body a lesson is a feat difficult. It's hard to lie to the body. One can drink poison and die thinking one would live forever. I think as I walk down the apartment's stairs, past dim but bright lights, a couple here-there not actually working, that poisoning my mind to chase after the body's lessons may be interesting.
Day’s gone swift kill for havoc.

Bellow Toys

The next morning, once swelling had subsided at last, the cluster of nightmares already subsumed back into the great void kept below. Calmer more stable and greater. I had noticed my eyes had come back. Always a welcome. I knew not where I was, a bit before it felt like a terribly hellish dream. But I met Lucifer before, and he could never be so cruel to an equal. He knew equality, he same terror not in mirrors but in man's hearts.
And I could see now- my eyes told me two very different things on the same bearing. Unfamiliarity. I had surely fallen into some trap through the nexus of uncertainty. I did not fill myself up with despair too much, though it tempted me like candy, so dandy, and liquor, much quicker. I wanted to give up, with only myself, no stars to seek in the sky and no dragons to ride. I would let myself fall to sleep quite often, not picking myself up again. I fell soon to a feverish haze, a terrible haze. Of what use will denial ever be, if the capacity to mislead lives on beyond the last efforts of deposed kings?

My notebook; It took me days before I unraveled a book of my own. Possessions here were changed, as was much around me. Memories felt fine. Although cloudy and the fatigue's hindrances presented themselves at every sleek turn of a nerve, few was lost. Just the ways there. It would take a confirmation, of some desperation. I couldn't be in this alone. We always knew another exit was not far, though this faith was in the unending relation between teacher and student, it failed not for the intentions of our kind lies not in competition but in completion. A full set of ideas, to guide not blind. It would mean a nasty case of the shakes no matter what, but at least I would know it wasn't my own problem to find another. Another.
I need to escape. Wake up. Escape. I already know everything, born enlightened and wordless. I’ve just lost the key. Nothing rather else. Not a time bomb, struggling for what I call the end of time.

 

Pages 1through 17 of The Patient. Available through amazon.com and Barnes and Noble. All procedes will go towards the author's legal defense fund.

Caveat Sector:

x. Biological: A brief list of selected figures and their respective diagnosis, disclaimer, mailing address & contact information.

y. Continuum Project: Records marking/marring progress, notes to self, delineating descent into self-destruction.

z. Mezzanine: Some notes.

0.

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