it was late at night. everything had slid from my mind through my feet, into the floor. i could smell how long it had been since i vacuumed. i think it was spring, but i can't be sure of that. i am sure it was night. and that the moon was full.

i have a checklist. every woman i have ever seen, loved, befriended or fucked has measured up to some of the list. some even score quite high, but none get them all.

i was standing in my living room, naked. the lights were out and i could see the occasional car dart by the window. i didn't really notice them. she commanded my attention. riveting and beautiful, beyond meaning. she was full, and making her way over the lands.

i didn't want a courtship. that was not my mood. i wanted to fill her and by doing so, fill myself. she hit every item on the checklist, every one. even though i couldn't hear her voice, or touch her skin. . . no, because of those things, she was perfection.

i went out to my deck. behind the house. where she stood, bold and luminous. i took myself by the hand and stared sraight at her. my boldness bothered her not at all. she smiled at me and coaxed me. she wooed me and impressed me. she moved my tides, and i gritted my teeth.

people can say a lot of things. people can have a lot of things. but what you have means nothing, and what you say means nothing. you may have riches and fame and women who are made of tinsel and ice cream. i cannot care. naked and unafraid, in her own bedroom, i fucked the moon.

And all throughout the land there was heard a resounding *click*. As something uncannily properly shaped snapped into place. This is not something suitable for explanation.

http://images.ucomics.com/images/pdfs/sadams/godsdebris.pdf

Today I am filled with terror.

Sit, stare at the monitor. Riffle through papers. Things need done, certainly. Ok, get to work. Hammer hammer hammer. . .

Slipped, staring at the screen, nothing doing. Panic. What the fuck am I doing here, this isn't my beautiful life. Stare and stare.

Regroup. Go get some coffee. Check the news, reset. Back to work. Hammer hammer hammer. . .

Slipped, again. This time its worse, you can't focus. Every time I slip its harder to find the will to pick it up again. Fine, there's more to be done. Find another task, yes, creative one. Business cards or some other colors and shapes problem. This is more immersive, better. Move, crop, fill, move, hammer hammer hammer. . .

Doesn't last forever, done with that. New task now, but you are in the inbetweentimes, the panic returns. Distract. News, more coffee. Twitchy and antsy. Need something to focus on, focus the hands and the brains. Quit smoking (bad idea?), and don't have any anyhow. Could bum one. Too much trouble. Go to the bathroom and jerk off. Focus focus, release. Don't look at the dog paintings, close your eyes and focus. Fucking focus.

I'm terrified.

there's a few minutes after you wake up in the morning (or are woken up by some electronic beeping, i need to get me something analogue). slipped, start again.

there's a few minutes after you wake up in the morning where you are a few breaths from death. there is a longing to just be asleep again, a powerful longing. i savored it this morning, that intense desire to not be alive and moving. to just go back to sleep where i didn't have anything to do with the world, and vise versa.

there is nothing after you die. it is a myth perpetuated by a fearful consciousness. you expire. the unique lattice of your mind will melt into rot and loam. there is no coming back. it's not pessimism, it's pragmatism.

any one of these nights you might fall asleep, not to wake. for some obscure or even pedestrian reason, you may die. and there is a stab of fear in that recognition of mortality. for some, more than a stab. but for those small minutes in the morning, instead of being afraid, you want it.