It’s cramped in my little hole in the wall apartment. When it rains, it is rather cozy though.
I still don’t know what’s really going on. Going on with my life, anything. Each day just becomes a gaussian blur of the previous, and so on. I’m Robert Saul Jack. I’m a weapon. Now I’m a writer.
Some would say that I’m a little batty in the head, suffering from some sort of dementia. They are probably correct. When you’re designed like I am, you’re bound to have a flaw of having a screw or two loose. It’s what makes things work.
The thing that works when I blackout; the thing that humors me when I come to, reading notes like fucking Memento scrawled in my journal. Anyone can blackout with enough booze, drugs, sex and rock-n-roll, then scrawl thier prophesies in a book. The problem is, mine come true.
The worse is when I do this in broad, bright walking, waking daylight. I don’t just predict I feel, adapt and become a part of whomever is my target. Sometimes it’s intentional; but the majority is by reflex. This is what makes me a weapon. I blend, I befriend, and I leave. I was trained to exploit my natural abilities. Now all I see are pieces of time, rendered out of sequence, haunting me while eat, shit and breathe.
I’m so scared to rest. I don’t want to see what happens next.