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February 10, 2020
Another sick wet night of drifting; no, crashing; no, cracking in and out of sleep... or what passes for sleep these damned days. I have not slept properly in decades. Sleep is a sad memory, a memory as grey and amorphous as sleep. Every night is a tingling aching toss party; a body in a sheet sandwich, shit sandwich, splashing in and out of mad lysergic dreams, rehearsals for dementia, dreaming of her, him, me, them, all of us mashed up together in a mayhem miasma. Others think I am overcooking it. Fuck you: you should try my dreams, otherfucker.