Someone's coming in at night and making me sick. I shouldn't crave chocolate first thing in the morning. What I really need is pain killers. I would feel at ease at the guillotine. My head and neck severed from the rest of me. I could move to sleepy hollow. Garlic and thread. A sewing kit. I must get out and get these things. It isn't easy to find teak around here. I must get a broom. I need to fix my breathing. I am stopped up like a pot. Cesspool stench won't let me breathe. This is crazy. They can't get in through the tele anymore so they've found another way. Is it the pills? Perfect place to hide. This is unreal. I am too tired at night to bathe and that will be my downfall. I need to pull the plug soon or else I'll splatter everywhere. It won't be pretty. A good part of my dream was in the shower. It was long and dragging. Washing every strand of hair individually. I sent for more shampoo through the window. It was the bathroom on Thorn Street. What was given to me was more like grease. I was in the shower for hours. Outside there was a contest of wits. The woman in charge was not nice. Her husband was worse. The nice fellow that brought me the grease was shat on. He seemed in a trance and was going in circles. The horrid couple made him bend over for brain injections. This made him cry. Not from pain. He was ecstatic. He wanted desperately to be smart. When my dream ended, the boy was curled up in a puddle of blood and tears. I'm not looking forward to the shower. It's been a few days though and I'm heavy with waste. Old energy. Dead weight. This is too much to sit in. Perhaps I'll hose off. The cats might think it strange. They might consider me human. This would put an end to my social affairs and then what? Succumb to Durkheim's logic? I don't think so. We must be in prime social status when we go out. Take some friends along. The canyon is good for rocks. Then hop in the VW and drive to OB. Dying is an art, Sylvia said. I say it's sport. The earlier you cross the finish line the harder they cheer.