The answer is the end.

The question or suggestion is the art.

The artist is the bridge.

She’s practiced the look in the mirror for so long that it is no longer necessary and is just now the poster expression that she greets me with.

I had been sick for a week when she dropped by and I decided to try out my blind man routine as I greeted them at my door… patting the air “Are you there? Are you there Sweetheart?”

The bitch face was replaced with a look of abject horror that seemed to say in the moment, ‘If my cash cow is blind how will he work in order to support me?’

I laughed and returned to my life of service.

I am reading James Joyce and his fabulous stream of conciousness and I am reading Marshall Mcluhan and Mcluhan was a fan of Joyce which is interesting in that Mcluhan is writing about awareness and conciousness and James is demonstrating in writing how we think and in efforts to be a writer and I am thinking it would almost be unconcious to be aware of these 2 and not beg, borrow, steal here. No??

The diehard is holding a phony fort with the force of a frightened sycophant.

Time to let go… Face your fears. Yes it is that time. The World awaits YOU.

It’s the boundaries I seek… where change has maximum abrasion. I have that patience now that can be a wise substitute for courage which is at least one reason why explorers ought to be old men.

Another day, sundown… Another night sundown. Orange to black, sundown. Fades to midnight blue. There’s nothing I can’t do.

Here comes the night and I don’t know why, I hear your voice and I lose my way. Where are you now? Can I touch you somehow? You’re somewhere near sleep, where images fade… and here comes the sun. Another night is down. Here comes the sun and here I go again.

Saw the man he was shot down. Eyes rolled white, he was shot down. Breathed goodbye, that sound. Fades to midnight blue. There’s nothing I can do.

And here comes the night and I don’t know why I hear your voice and I lose my way. Where are you now? Can I touch you somehow? You’re somewhere near sleep, where images fade. And here comes the sun, another night is done. Orange to black, sundown. Fades to midnight blue. There’s nothing I can do.

Peggy told me that she’s bored and thought that there’s nothing worse than boredom… when suddenly I realized that the one advantage of being tethered to a narcissist is you are seldom bored.

You never know what’s coming down the road however you can be certain that drama will ensue.

Now I didn’t advise Peggy to have a child with a narcissist… I was just trying to point out that boredom might not be getting a worse reputation than it deserves.

I don’t know why my baby loves clowns Whose painted on tears never fall down. I don’t know what she sees in their eyes. Perhaps the line tween horror/surprise.

I don’t know why my baby can’t sing… Why Carnival music isn’t her thing. It fills my head when I’m at the fair. Searching for clues in clowns everywhere.

I don’t know why she screams at night… I hope it’s not why she holds me so tight Cause I’m the type I’m weak for love. Carnival music I rise above.

Is it the pain or is it the fear? For some Carnival crime from yesteryears? Maybe it’s you, maybe I’ll never know. Maybe it’s me, baby let go.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the kings horses and all the kings men, tried and they tried, but she fell down again.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall… She went to her shrink, ended up at the mall. Humpty Dumpty wanted it all.

The day the voice moved in with me… He brought his good friend fear.        Said we all share your heart and soul. You’ll soon forget we’re here.

The day the voice moved in with me. Peace and sleep moved out. And the addict he was at the door. The Voice did jump and shout.

Said, “We like you, we like it here.          We know you like us too. And we know you’ll like our friends cause true friends are so few.

The Voice would talk for hours about nothing much at all and all the noise would wake the fear and the drunk would wake withdrawal.

Years had passed in tears and stains and I had to kill the fear. The Voice he left in the middle of night said he didn’t like it here.

The Voice returns sometimes when I sleep, but he’s gone when I’m awake. The strength it took to kill the fear was more than he could take.

The drunk is with the addict and they live from coast to coast. And sometimes when I pray to God, I pray you’re not their host.

Singing… We like you we like it here and we know you like us too. And we know you’ll like our friends cause true friends are so few.

No I never met her, she was legend around the Lake. Beautiful as a ballerina and colder than a snake.

They said no man could refuse her but some were glad they did. And the one she selected, is in a bottle where he hid.

Until his son came calling, “Dad now it is OK.”! I’m 16. She’s left for the coast, and her beauty’s gone away.

The moral of the story or so that I’ve been told, is head removal from your ass gets easier when you’re old.