it's nearly one in the afternoon and i haven't read a fucking email this year.
this was supposed to be a serious day. deadlines. targets. catholic guilt. presbyterian duty stomping around the room like an angry motherfucker.
instead i'm still in my silk bruce lee pyjama bottoms, three coffees deep, magic potions mashed into yoghurt, watching my laptop quietly devour the morning.
this is a field report from inside the machine.
adhd. drugs. barefoot running in tropical heat. mouth taped shut. russian garment dye. cannabinoids. kratom. tequila. sleep. pain. recovery. the strange optimisation ritual required to keep the trapdoor open and the lights on.
i'm not trying to live forever.
i'm trying to stay elastic.
plastic.
interested.
somewhere between the beach, the sea, the pharmacy and the bar, i've assembled a system that allows me to function. not calmly. not normally. but function nonetheless.
the drugs work.
until they don't.
then i change the mix.
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