Fortune on the Floor

And oh what a thought she was!

Over the bedroom door sat flies like gargoyles guarding, warning of the fragmented goblin inside. Monday/Tuesday's Bourbon Midnight threw itself onto my bed during sleep, unremembered but left with a wet sickening sweet that only teased the hungover Tuesday to throw-throw some more. Wednesday saw the bottleless fight to keep the burn away; it was a burn with drink I thought would keep the rue at bay. Thursday night I lurched picking up a scrap piece of paper in front of my bedroom door. It said: Simplicity of character is the natural result of profound thought. It was an uncookied fortune scattered random on the floor. To these words was the reaction, "I must not think profoundly because I am no simple man." There are many thoughts, yes. But they are not a meditation, a sanctuary with altars of promised peace, no, they are the arena masses of thoughts that cheer, jeer and chant raging to be heard by one.

But I can't hear anyone. It's just noise - one overwhelming RAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

I must be a broken man.

I've lost the profound thought that which kept me simple, functioning, joyous.