You're underneath a fern patch, an umbrella mushroom, your favorites, a shotgun burst of dart-flies buzzing around, the sun and sky suddenly got angry, a silhouette of a feline on a bench, a storm looming over your horizon like a bruised purple monster from some far away and strange foreign land. You love milk thistle and briar thickets, your pale horses in God's rain that's sure enough headed your way, the spirals of an old notebook and the endless stories in your head. Likewise, you have ample cause for sorrow and sadness, madness and gentle poetic harmony, the surrounding dead are in deep dark, holes, and you always try to climb into their caskets with them, you wish you were under the ground, asleep among things that do not heal, faces that never go away, worlds that no longer exist. You are not what is dead, dimples and a scent of Dove, eucalyptus and birch, your hair glistens and you are in mismatched clothes, socks that never seem to match, you care not sayeth thine mouth with a sharp tongue and the venom of a serpent. Your lake, hanging a dead chicken from your dock over the green and murky water, so life can continue, this is their way, the old way, adopted by you.
The Castle that isn't Kafka's, rows upon rows of classical literary masterpieces, Dostoevsky, my teacher, my honorable gentleman and genius, back to me, I've absorbed your psychology lessons and went out into the world, oh how I've read them all, I was reading at a college level when I was a child. A Polish Nun once kissed my forehead, said my lashes were beautiful, she must have been a hundred and twenty years old, it's thundering, Christ be praised. Scribbles on paper, doodles and horrible penmanship, write like a doctor, Schizotypal people who pen blogs, 23rd year, more or less, another day, another ink blot on digital paper.