i hate typing out e-mail addresses. and subject lines. formality. it's like putting on a tie. i feel pissed off doing it, but proud once it is done. i think i will skip work tomorrow. no one will even know, since no one bothers to question me any more, they just nod and point. right now it is tome to sleep for 5 or 6 days straight, and to wake up with cottonballs in my cheeks. had lunch this afternoon with someone who has had a website up even longer than i. sometimes i wonder why people are always trying to sell me to me. i'm not buying right now. he wants me to play piano at his website's 5 year anniversary, and i'm perfectly happy to do it. it was my idea, after all . i never kept up with what the exact date of my website was, but it is sometime around november/december 1994. i lurch back a little further any time i talk about it, but you can be sure that december is an accurate guess, and i know you've seen these pages since the first, and as you might know already i am particularly drawn to people who are nothing more than there for years at a time; i've been on the telephone since late 1992. i remember gaping into the computer back then and knowing early on that this was different, that something was changing for me. it seems early now, but then it seemed like midnight, or yesterday, or next week. i'm enclosing a picture i took at a jewish diner on 22nd street (that had no burgers) this afternoon, and listening to a symphony in F on the radio. this afternoon i felt all of it pouring out of myself. everything there is, or was. the adrenaline, the energy, the confidence, the blood. it hurts sometimes to communicate with other people, it is so dark and happy sitting here like this. i've been locking the door behind me since sunday, and wrapping the whole apartment in aluminum foil. make that reynold's wrap. i'm not smoking pot, i just don't like the sunlight, and at night this room is a fucking tomb, so when i jolt awake at 4:30 after the wine dies and i'm stuck lying clammy in bed with my angry face cramming itself into the pillow and 3 hours before the radio kicks off announcing the day -- so when i jolt awake at 4:30 i am doomed to wait for sunrise, that hot pointer jabbing at the inside of my pectoral hunk of cartiledge ... i was going to make a point, there was a theme to this unbelievable attempt at a sentence, but it is too grandiose for a beerhead like me., why don't you forget about me tonight? last night i had drinks with someone else from tampa making it in new york. i'm not over it yet, i still once in a while heave and hock up the notion that i'm making it in new york. i won't get over it for 10 years, or until i get the next columbia house cd club shipment, or until i suck another cup full of sutter home cheap shit wine and then let my body sleep over the soldering gun of phlegm, not bone, in my chest
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