So, it’s August now. I can already hear the nuances of end-of-summer wind rustling the trees outside my window each morning. The cicadas are doing their thing, and it’s not long until I’ll be doing mine. Fall and winter coming ‘round the corner, the alcoholism will pick back up, I’ll be isolating myself more, writing more. No longer living in the city, where you have to watch your back at night; out here in the suburbs, the danger to myself is me. Spirits spilling down my gullet saturating my soul. Whoa, this is really some cliché garbagio, slow it down, think it through. Why do you even write? There’s no career in this. Do something useful with your time. Fuck. Agh. Now there’s beer dripping down the wall and a dent where the tall boy hit. I’ll clean it up tomorrow. Hold up, that was almost two years ago. Did I ever clean that mess up? Where’m I now, and where’ve I been?

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