And these drugs, they’re murder on the brain. They mute the migraines, short circuit misfiring neurons, but, in return, I feel dull as a fax machine. My writing are copies of copies. I can still read, slow like an adolescent with ADD, but that’s better than nothing. Yesterday I was reading Bukowski’s War All The Time and I came across this quote—
‘In between the
life is such
a gentle habit’
— and I thought: Fuck me, there’s a slit of life between bad days, like fireflies you see only in the darkness outside cities, like phosphorescence swimming in the deep black sea.
art by Jarek Puczel