Oh, and Ronald Reagan is dead. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all, right? Consider mine a long and determined silence.
Another night of too little sleep crowded with too many nightmares. I've had the Ambien two nights now, but have yet to use it. But I will tonight. I feel like I'm beginning to ravel at the seams. Look closely and you'll see what's inside. So, more pills. There will always be more pills, because that's what we have now instead of gods and ceremony. We have pills and therapists and football and Wal-Mart. I'm pretty sure a couple of good, old-fashioned human sacrifices would clear my head better than another frelling prescription, but we are civilized. I keep forgetting that, there's so little day-to-day evidence to go on. We are chrome. We are daylight. Anxiety and sorrow and anger only decrease productivity. That which decreases productivity shall be placed safely within the medical paradigm and doped into submission. It's for the Greater Good, after all. Still, you gotta wonder who's paying the technoshamans and neuromancers these days. No, you don't have to wonder. It's plain as the day on my face.
I'm starting to feel like John Blaylock, or Charlie Gordon. It's all slipping away, even though I was promised it would last forever. And if I could just sleep, real sleep, without pills or nightmares or the fear of waking, I might be able to make it all right again.
You talk too much, Kiernan. For a writer, you talk way too much. Know what I'm saying?
Yesterday. No more notes. And we didn't make it to the theatre, either. Yesterday was almost a blank, as for as productivity is concerned. I do remember watching the tail end of a documentary on undersea archaeology and the recovery of the Adventure Galley, and then there was the first half of another documentary on the bombing of Bikini Atoll in 1946.
Oh, hell. Never mind.