This chapter is titled "Untitled".

I'm so worn out right now, I can hardly think straight. I've had to retype the preceding sentence 5 times before I spelled everything correctly, thats how exhausted and sick I am. Yet I am unable to get to sleep. This puzzles me. Standard reaction would be to take some NyQuil and put on some Eddie Izzard or Lewis Black and pass out, but I've become so disenchanted with my obvious self-medicating that I've forsworn all sleep aids for the recent past, and shall continue to do so. I bring enough problems on myself through my disfunctional brain chemistry without adding to their impairance with chemicals and distilled substances.

There is something in the air right now, something is creeping around the edges of my consciousness/conscience. I'm not entirely sure of its origin or its purpose, but its left me feeling uneasy and paranoid. Adding that to my current state of well-being has left me with very little in the way of optimism, and a whole lot in the way of sarcasm and pessimistic leanings in written form. Though, to be honest, it has helped with the songwriting aspect of my daily existence. I always seem to write better when going through some sort of emotional crisis. These days, they come fast as quicksilver, and in multiples. I feign normality, and for the most part succeed, I think. "I lie well, Hallelu," all that whatnot.

I wish I worked better. Physically and mentally. My broken pieces aren't fitting together as well as they used to, and their edges are wearing down with overuse. Trying to find the corners of the jigsaw, trying to bring it all back together again for once last try for the sweet Souvenir. The blackbird has broken free of its cage though, and once again my attention wanders backwards, to my travails and failures, always backwards. Hence, self-pity and wasted words. I promise to fix myself, eventually. I have no glue though, and my seams are showing.

The safe bet would be to just call it quits, move on to food service, and consign myself to a future of "have a nice day"s and "can I help the next person"s. The safe bet would be to divest myself of these fleeting dreams of rememberance and destiny and being something that "matters, man." I can't seem to let go though, as seems to be my main fault in everything. I've discontinued my hope for the future again, and am focusing more on the present, and all its lacking. And once again, I'm hoping as time goes that I won't regret this.

But I'm betting not.