This town is flooding.
I awoke this morn with a horrendous start, a sonic bombardment at my bedroom window, convulsed into consciousness. Minutes pass before the quivering ceases, before the distress subsides, then throwing open the curtains to:
Rain. A thunderstorm.
I watch from beneath my sheets, from behind the window, entice the pellets of rain toward me, savor the saturating warmth through the inviolability my crystal aegis affords me.
I elect against sustenance. My stomach aches for appeasement, but I choose a single to satiate me; I place the needle at its beginning over and again, mesmerize myself with Lennon's and Harrison's vocals, house myself within the harmony, envelop myself within the violins, the violas, the cellos, ruminate on the funeral awaiting me, its attendants; or lack thereof, perhaps.
I cycle myself far and away, outside, the rain still assailing the ground, assailing me, and I mutter incantations urging my legs into faster and faster revolutions, the stings from the bullets exponentiating with each acceleration. This, I do on purpose.
I am at the pier now.
The river ascends, parades past the levees, swashes over my shoes, over the layers beneath and onto my bare skin.
I am drenched.
It is glorious.
From whence, indeed, do the lonely people come?
Had I a say in the matter, I would abandon this World and inter my corpse in some remote territory, a place without Unreal, a place where expression is unnecessary; forbidden even.
I would be happy, I swear it.
But then isn't that merely further trickery of the mind.
Attached to the back of the fourth page, a smaller sheet of paper, torn from a sketchbook, once damp but dried out from decades of disregard, meticulously penciled, in the same handwriting as the frenzied diatribes preceding it, but the trenchant rage instead replaced by a gentle gloom: