I was just about to go to bed when a story that’s been kind of unfinished and in pieces for years now came into my head and I realized the form it needs to be in (or lack of form really). It’s about greed and delusions and Key West and ghost tours and get-rich-schemes and absinthe and hallucinations. It purposefully breaks a few literary and grammar rules and will (whenever I get around to finishing it…maybe in the Fall) be sort of stream of conscious…sort of not. It does start with these two sentences:

There was no moon the night we dug up Avery Mortom. And beers were a buck-fifty a bottle.

I’m ready to be done with this cold or bug or whatever. It’s kept me zonked out for a week. Today, in the car, I sang along to my music, despite my throat not being ready. I sang along until I tasted acid and it felt good, even in the acid burn. I mean, a whole week of not being able to sing, by myself, in my car…on top of feeling shitty. Despite the burn, I think my sickness will be gone when I wake up next…save, perhaps, a little mucus love note from an infection that moved on. Sometimes it’s healthy to ignore your body’s imagined limitations.

Living healthy can kill ya sometimes…