As you read the last pages of the night, you start spinning around the room. Weigh the shackles of the shit that has you tied up along the day, and the insults start to burn off ... Your eyes travel-bit wobbly and focused, a paragraph, but return to the top ... Only read words and ideas do not read, and do not read images; authors no longer read, and read no gospels, no longer read shit, and do not read minds, no longer read insults and profanity, and do not read other trash. You have to trace every line and try to read-when-everything you do makes you forget. Maybe if you realized all the crap that gets you, maybe if you could understand everything that happens, maybe if you broke those chains, maybe ... maybe you could read. But that idea does not pass through your brain, your head. It is always easier to stay up late reading, understanding nothing, and think that shit always belongs to another.
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