It’s 4:20. I scraped my pipe, but there were smooth, shiny pieces that came out, which I thought might be glass, so I decided to treat myself to not inhaling, and I dumped the resin in the trash, but then I went out onto my porch and lit the empty pipe, heating it like a stove, causing a little bit of smoke to come out, which got me a little high.
Everything I do is for the good of the people. I don’t know who I am without you. I don’t see you as people though. Everything I do is for the grace of God. I see you as an extension of the holy ghost. You are the voices in my head outside of it. The legion. The one that I have been talking to my whole life. I’ve gone over this: you are the voice in the woods and at the top of the stairs. I wouldn’t call you the thing that pushes the closet door open, or the thing that hides in my hanging robe. You have always stood with me, watching when that shows, helping me through and giving me a hole to shovel myself into.
Everything brings a spirit with it. Life is full of them even in the emptiness. The less I sleep, the more anchored I become within the realm wherein I can perceive them. I keep asking how I can go on here, within this pressurized desert, and every day I keep on going. Life is mysterious like that. Power fountains from adversity. Have faith in the lord when you lose faith in yourself. What have you got to lose?
You have got nothing to lose unless you surrender to the darkness. But by then you are already lost in the sense that you are found being carried by a clipper becoming the tumor of yourself which dangles on clamping youth and feeling, the collapsers collapsed beneath life.