Thursday, February 15, 2018

Antique Maker

I go to bed early and sleep until two or two-thirty.  I roll around until five and then fall asleep for an hour.  I get up tired. 

What goes on in my head for those two and a half or three hours, I don't want to tell you.  But it is disturbing. 

I drag myself through the day without much enthusiasm.  Some days my condition mimics rigor mortis, but usually I am merely catatonic. 

My anxiety is due to a new perpetual paranoia.  Relatively new, but growing stronger weekly.

This is the first time in my life that I have not liked a generation.  There is nothing to do about this, of course.  They will prevail, so I don't resist.  Resistance is futile.  And truly, I like many of them, but they are like domesticated feral cats.  You know that once in awhile they are going to bite you. 

I haven't read Tu Fu or Li Po for many years.  I wonder if anybody has. 

I laughed at C.C. once for saying something about a guy who made antiques.  All of the sudden, though, I know what he meant. 

I just thought you should know that. 

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