He was a good man; or so he told himself.

He was more of a cipher, really. Defensive and insecure - addicted to bleach and voiding smells and revisions and frenzied, incessant effort towards perfection. Loving minutiae - in all its beauty. And occassional belligerence - clenching jaws to toothdust and clinging on to what feels normal by chewed-bleeding fingernails. Neuroses! But still, surprisingly, always thinking of stretch goals for life and other unattainables to, sadly, knowingly, keep his mind off crushing thoughts of meaning. Reading and doing and technicianing and not thinking, never thinking...

...but more filling his head with trickery as convincing thoughts of providing and protecting, a balanced life, fulfilling work, and other such delusions of norm. Ignoring - racing mind, natural introversion, and inclination to hibernate - to painfully and slowly smack lips through full sentences and paragraphs of speech.

So he told himself.

Quote

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USlnfTGlhXc&feature=related

This

This is humidity's land.

P

Shadows! Ominous fucking shadows, wooden and looming and diminishing sightlines and everywhere.

The silo had crumbled down, to the ground. All the way down. My life, spilling all over the farm grounds for all to see. Pouring liquid. Vultures - picking and judging and condescending. I had never looked harder for it, this time, never harder. Something I just could not find, not this time. Protection, pristine and invaluable. Now, completely open. It happened fast and I can still see it as if on the outside; my mind - trash, my body - atrophied, my soul - a shell. I guess I would call it depression if I could find a concrete definition. No matter, indifference abound.