[Illness]'s diary
I still get letters in the mail. Mostly from cracked up men in tiny rooms with factory jobs or no jobs. Who are living with whores or no women at all. No hope. Just booze and madness.
I get most of their letters on line paper. Written with an unsharpened pencil or in ink. In tiny handwriting that slants down to the left. And the paper is most often torn, usually halfway up the middle. And they say they like my stuff.
I've written from where it's at. They recognize it truly. I've given them some chance, some recognition of where it's at.
It's true, i was there. Even worse off than most of them. But i wonder if they realize where their letter arrives. Well it is dropped into a box on a wire fence, behind a six foot hedge and a long driveway to a two car garage, rose garden, fruit trees, animals, a beautiful woman, mortgage about half paid after a year's residence, a new car, two cars, a fireplace and a green rug 2 inches deep. With a young boy to write my stuff now. -CB
So i was sitting on the bus the other day when a drugged up crazy dood got on. His head was rolling from side to side like he had so much shit up there that he didn't know what to do with it. He stood there and said "I got something to say man!" and i said "What?". Then he looked at me with his rolling eyes and proceeded to talk "I i i know i'm a dope fiend maaaan but i don't have the same fears as you. Iii don't fear death i understand death, it is my friennnd. Hee hee hee aaall you people running around trying to prevent it, looking for things like eternal youth, thinking i must surviive surviiiive surviive. Trying and looking for things that will give your life meaning and purpose...like God. Heh heh well i've got my own God and here he is in this little plastic baaag. I'm a dope fiend maaaan."
