it's another friday night in bismarck, looped-out from my sickness and coming down from a mean happy-hour buzz... and all this seems so fucking inconsequential. when you're thirty-five thousand feet in the air or lost in the tears of a steel guitar you look down on the world and realise sometimes that this is all just a fucking confused and jumbled mess of trivialities that everyone is having heart attacks over; and that none of it really matters. the kicker is that all of us know what matters, and i'd share it with you if you didn't consciously know this, reader, but i'm simply too tired, too zonked, too looped to do so ... and it would ruin the suprise.

i guess what i'm a-sayin' is that people just need to slow the fuck down and chill out and realise that life never fucking ends and that maybe doing nothing is doing something and doing something might mean you're doing nothing. let it all go and go to sleep... it's okay.

and i'd go to sleep, but my head won't let me - it races around like a cat whose ass is shooting forth the flames of hell itself. My ears are plugged and i can't think but oh my head sure likes to chatter, like a television in a crack-binge deathgrip. The fucker won't shut up for the life of me, and i might as well be a man sentenced to a life in the desert with nothing to keep me company save for the noise of the wind blowing 'cross the sand, and nothing to keep me warm at night save for the stars.

the small things in life, though, do offer some comfort. hot showers aim to please and often succeed. So do warm blankets and tiny shining offerings of fine sounds, such as Calexico, Loreena McKennitt, or Slayer. They'll show you a bit of the light that can be so hard to find sometimes, but when you hit stop, oh, the light fades... and you're left in the cold dark again. With a brain that's engaged for the long haul, the trek over the mountains that you can only wish never existed.

All the dude ever wanted was his immune system back.