Tonight I'm feeling so frickin' crazy that I make Richard Brautigan look almost sane. And he was the greatest poet of the twentieth century, so you know he was out of his mind. Right after his fiftieth birthday he went out to his barn under a Montana sunset, put his rifle barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger with his toe....there are days when I kinda wish I'd done the same. But I missed the date by twelve years, and to do it now would seem like just a bid for attention. Past a certain age, suicide becomes an act of vanity.
So I'll pray that the winter comes soon, and that it doesn't bring too much ice and snow. And I'll pray that this storm ends soon, before the solstice comes, and the sun turns north, and we start all over again. I could use some quiet.
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