To Sleep

Dear K,

I'm still in the grips of this low tide. I can't sleep. I eat and it tastes like ashes. I drink but I am still thirsty, and when I bend towards the earth I find it farther down than when I started.

I went and danced this weekend, and I drank whiskey like tomorrow was the second coming and Jesus had just said there wouldn't be any whiskey in New Jerusalem.

Send me everything you want.

I think I might want to be Kurt Vonnegut. I wish my youth hadn't been ruined by not going to war and seeing that profound demise and misery, but that's missing the whole point isn't it?

I'm not sure that I can do anything right. I feel my mind slipping away, and I'm losing my edges. I'm dying so slowly it just looks like living, and isn't that the real tragedy?

Nobody can save us. I'm not really sure there's anything to be saved. I wish we were all just dreams.

When?
K