A Letter from the Dark side.

Here’s a spry bit of news, Sofia. I only miss you when I’m drunk, or coming down off the drink. Sober? I get that we have drifted apart, that we are no longer eye to eye, nor heart to heart...If we ever really were? (We truly were, and it was beautiful...when I would let it be)

In another revaluation, again just this morning, I have discovered, genuinely, for the absolute first time (there have been a couple of flashes through my addled brain, in recent days) that I am a reprehensible drunk. I am not the ‘Jim Morrison’, nor am I the ‘James Joyce’ character I believed myself to be...all this wasted time. I am more akin to the piss-soaked red-face, down by the gutter, drinking Gin. My talents are good, better than most...but very good, is the mortal enemy of great. If I do not stop this clownish belief, some-day soon, I will find myself red-faced, smiling up from a gutter. Or dead.

Gubby is now dead. Hanley? – brown bread. Tiffo? –a living corpse, his immense brain having died years ago, most likely from an overdose. Me? Sitting in my pants, at 9.05 am furiously drinking....neurotically, rhyming every sentence with the last, and clinging desperately to a belief I once held, alone with the band, at the bitter last dance.

Somebody...Sofia, anybody, fuck me in a bath of icy cold water, push my head down till my arms stop...then release me. So I can be as a normal person for a moment. With no image in my mind, more real than what it is I see by eye, what you would unquestioningly, thoughtlessly, call life. It would be a pleasure indeed...just for a time. Then I would get bored.

There’s shaking in the offing for tomorrow, or even perhaps tonight? There will be inconsolable, unstoppable thoughts at play over and over, there will be a dangerous temperature throughout, and a fear of eating that will fight hard and long with an empty stomach. Liver and kidneys will be audible, but not as loud as my shout. But, fever will subside, and the pain will pass, and in about three days of sobriety, I will be itching to feel that God-like intelligence again, and be above a pointless, plain and obvious world, that to me, lies asleep in a kind of chosen morass.