Dedicated to Miss Nina Simone, during a trip down a manic lane.
Jan 18, 2017 · 1 min read
It’s been ninety-six hours since the self last wrote. When the self doesn’t write, life meanders aimlessly, without quality, without worth, without reaffirmation, self-reflection. If the self can’t reflect, it self-flagellates. Oh, why does the self not indulge in things meaningful for the mind, the body. Hark, that’s exactly what the self doesn’t want to do. There you go, back to square one. At least, this time around, she notated her obsessive, repulsive, lunacy-tinged train of thought.
