Tomato soup and a Rainier beer help my insomnia.
Sometimes I’m in pain and I don’t know what to do about it but hand myself
over to someone who will hurt me more and then I can hate them instead of myself.
A Russian woman (I have processed) boy has an earache. I remember having the most painful earaches when I was a boy.
Sometimes a thought redolent of pain can be more painful than the actual pain
because it makes you think it is possible that you can go through that deprivation
again. Is it possible that you can be as lonely or as sick as your were when
you thought you weren’t going to survive the pain?
I have these purple green and brown flowers on a white plate to contain the water I give it.
I have been peeing on my leg. I don’t see the problem getting better.
I’m having pineapple chunks and New Zealand Fonterra cheddar for dinner.
What connects me to S? Her father and my mothers death? Our daughter. Our survival.
S  gave me a platitude. You can’t love anyone if you can’t love yourself.
She wants to be free. She made me her jailer.
Trees don’t look the same under sunlight whatever that means. The pine tree asked for my name. I’m what is your name again I said. Whenever I pass this particular pine
it asks for my name and it never remembers it.
I feel ashamed when S is in the room with me. There would be no shame without her, which is why it’s good she is around. She is my society. She knows to close the door when she leaves  and not to look at me. I try to breathe.I place my chair next to the purple gray plant. I don’t know the plants name. I’m done with proper names. I’m done with hello and goodbye. I’m done with forever, even though everyone who has died lives in me.
The chair that supports my torso belonged to my mother. It has thick bands of yellow and white straw bindings, there is even red and blue to be seen.
Our daughter slept alongside S last night who was prostrate from a muscle relaxer and reported in the morning that she had taken a shit in her underwear.
It’s okay I said. S was upset by her stool. I had to say something harmless. Silence would have been an insult. It would have been dumb silence.
Dynamite sticks go off under cars in Greeneville and Bayonne. Men threaten each other
with ax blades and tire irons in the middle of the day.
Y and twenty men  slipped two pills into my mouth. There are at least twenty men and they all look like Y. Maybe Y has been playing twenty men. But they are all in the toyota
Corolla including Y. They forced me onto the back floor of the car. I have forty something feet on my body. They grabbed me while I was making a trip to the hardware store,
I’m not sure If I want my tormentor to understand me. The pain may be less if I don’t
know my options. It may be better that I have nothing to appeal to. Y and his tormentors
will let me go like all of my tormentors have. I always feel worse after I have been
let go by my tormentor as if I’m beyond help and not to be considered a threat.
I think life can be less confusing when you are interrogated. I’ve never known what
my tormentors want from me. They ask me taxing questions. They draw conclusions I don’t follow. They confuse me. Do they want me to be healthy? Do they want me to
produce money so that I pay them? Is there something about how I respond that they can use on other test subjects?
I have to admit I feel important when my tormentor is interested in me. It gives me
purpose. I tremble in fear. I have hope. I have inexplicable unforeseen erections.