Must. Make. Decision.
Am running out of time.
Cannot breathe quite right. Stomach has been hurting for three weeks. Now feels like ulcer.
Cannot look A in the eyes.
Cannot stop thinking about Z.
Know that I am too old to only indulge.
Know that Z is nothing, and A is real and true.
But. Cannot. Act mature and wise. Or even in my own self-interest, it seems.
Must have Z and cocaine. Cannot stop even though have tried. More times than can count.
Screw. This. Bullshit.
Blame the past? Blame my age?
Blame myself? Yes. But who is myself? Can someone tell me how to get myself to sit down and take the time to have a talk with me?
We need to figure some things out.
No time, no time. Rules and time and death say so.
Come on now, come on, let’s go.
Make a decision. One, two. Marching forward.
One, two.
No.
Just one.
Do it!
Now!
And so I run. And skip.
And joke.
And avoid. And snort. And fuck. And laugh until pretend feels real.