I Should Write LessI traveled back in time to catch a flight on a plane to nowhere.

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.

I started shuffling through old napkins and journals today.  I’m a writer who should write less, but write on everything.  Sometimes I’m smart enough to date the material, to you know, give it some relevance.  Sometimes it’s just random like what I found today… The ink and paper looks fresh, but I have no memory of writing it.

Where is the smoke?  The darkness and fog which used to make these places a refuge and peek into hell is gone.  Missing memories of yesterday.  Missing the breath of a tainted holiday, I’m here now.

Lost and soon forgotten I live.  Replaying re-runs of Good Times, fooling memory into bliss.  Each day I live like this. These still framed memories.. They still remind me of what we were, and what we had; these fading memories.

These faces, etchings of what defines naturally obtainable.  Gorgeous, classy never.  Parts complete, senses destroyed.  Cannot comprehend, reflect sorrow and denial.  I’m going to blackout and evade the end; escape and return home.

Whiskey and wasted talents, wandering around until you’re dead.  Where is the prodigy?  Hidden and broken, in desperate need of glue. 

Ridiculous. Delivery is soon.  End of style and pizazz; so non-existent.  They give stares of incompatibility, and the air is turning blue.  I play with the cold and forget these memories.

Will you remember the styles?  The body, shapes which don’t forgive. So please die and cry for me. Wishing wanting never. Intrigued and insightful.  Reality = truth, and you are nothing.  The mannerisms are the same for each poison dealer.  Same for the deliverer.  The dealer dances and the deliverer scowls.  They must have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder  (ADHD), because they can’t stop moving!

I will turn gray, fade away and decay.  So I must live for now before it is too late, and this is why I must go. Why do I look?  It’s only human, Jack.  It does destroy you more though. I doesn’t matter, I just saw the future, and read that I’m already dead.

Wow, all these words and no recollection of the source.  It’s in my handwriting though, some matted with what could be tears or alcohol. Probably both.  I’ll come back to this when I have enough breadcrumbs to make a marble rye loaf.  That was just an mediocre, somewhat appetizing watercress finger sandwich.

My hands won’t stop shaking though, so whatever this is, must be related to why I’m marooned here. Fuck, I’m out of razors, and I’m in desperate need of a shave.