One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and three sheets of hydrogen bonded cellulose on which the first draft of the first chapter of the first chronicling of The Untold Tales of Jack Daniels and The Fabulous Machismo are written. Reeling, unsure mind fails to convert symbols into language due to having roused only minutes ago from the sleeping prison of itself. That is to say I had bad dreams. Pellucid sensory hallucinations whose only tells are stripped psychological defenses. Forced to endure unfiltered morosity I crumble then wake to waking, scream bloody truth and wake again. Despite the universality of these experiences, it's your misfortune and none of my own so I don't give a shit. I'm no Oprah. A little closer to six in the morning. Possessing an amount of time disproportionate to things with which to fill that time attempts are made to endure the finest Oscar worthy works of fart. "Before The Devil Knows You're Dead" and "The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford" display reverse gestalt attributes while "No Country For Old Men" and "There Will Be Blood" arouse whatever bits of brain evolved to handle arousal of that nature. The quasi-autobiographical semi bullshit total genius of collaborative efforts with The Kid take center stage in a no ring circus; contained within its rants and accounts of criminal activity phrases such as "moralless compass" and "giant man hands" all but guarantee success in prison libraries. Six minutes to six in the morning. Has it really been so long? That's what she said.
