Björk

I had this thought last night mid round one of mushrooms that I didn’t want to document anything.

And I kept telling narrator Vene, the one who is slightly me and slightly not real…the one you know if you’ve only ever read my words and not met me in person…to be quiet. I didn’t want to think in words because they were just a pillow fort for an ego that has made itself very small and fragile over the past year. I’ve become desiccated. Inert. Living on air to survive. Waiting to be activated.

Words weren’t my friend last night. So instead we just listened to jungle and drum and bass and Björk sing jazz tunes in Icelandic and drew and painted on these giant sheets of green paper.

Did funny observable moments happen? Yes. There were a couple of round robins of drug deals. Money went from person A to person B and then to person C and back to person A and illicit substances went in the opposite direction. I got a vicarious lesson in how to spot “good” coke. I’ll never use it. I’d rather be strapped to the front of a moving bullet train. But if you’re wondering, it involves “fish scale” iridescence.

I got home after 6:30 and passed out. I feel gooey inside. Less small. Less apologetic. Less defensive.

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