it's all the same, when you can't sleep

ticking clocks, flashing electronics, a car alarm. all these things have their own cadence and none, by an absolute measure, are synchronous. this, however, changes when you can't sleep. an insomniac will coalesce these bings and bongs into a perfectly orchestrated waking nightmare so that everything is hitting at once. like chinese water torture, it's the rhythm that kills you. it's that moment of respite in between tiny alarm clocks where you go mad. and as you lay there, nothing will help.

intro to the longest suicide note ever

I needed a place to vent. To talk about the fact that I've, yes, had my dick sucked by a man and thought it was great not because I was a fag but because a man knows just what a man wants. Ya dig? If not, click the back button. Here I sit with multiple health problems writing away while my financial debt, conscience burden, and work quota [least of my problems] pile up next to me. I always told myself that when it was time to write, I would know THAT IT WAS FUCKING TIME TO WRITE. Writers, here you find your hospice. Here you find your place to rest. To shoot, smoke, respire, and lay down to a dirt nap. Readers, this is your last stop. This is where Bukowski looks like the fucking pussy you always knew that coward lying bastard was. Here is where you learn the truth. Here is where I tell you what it's like to sell heroin, bash a man to death, fuck a woman in her ass, make a few hundred thousand, lose it all, work your way back up, bite the hand that feeds you, reject all that was handed to you, feel good about it, feel bad about it while feeling good about it, and just fucking live. And die.

Because here, my friends, here is my death note. Here I will give you the longest suicide note ever written. Over the span of days, years, or eons I will write myself to the grave while you figure out what happened to me and in turn, figure out what happened to you. Fading out will be much like fading in. Watch, my friends.