EschatonIIIPortion: part of Section ix

In the morning I open my eyes like a red gas giant blowing away its outer gases.

I am left like a white dwarf, cold and alone, in a cosmos that barely even notices.

I smoke enough to turn my insides into a mass of smouldering cinders.

Each day is like a tick on a cartoon bomb built of dynamite. It is only a matter of time before she blows.

I have great blisters on my fingers and roughcast callouses on my toes.

I do not want to destroy the world I just wish that she never was.

A day without so much as a penny is like a coke addict without a nose.

I write and the world writes with me; I read and the book is closed.

The first cup of tea in the morning is like medicine for the soul.

My cupboards are bare as a stone cave, and what I’ll eat today nobody knows.

I can feel myself dying, but slowly, as the life force in me shrinks and erodes.

It’s too late to start from the beginning, in this my writings and I are that close.

I’m depressed as a battery chicken, laying eggs that are tasteless and gross.

My works are my last will and testament in which nothing of value’s enclosed.

The cold is my current worst enemy; I’ll be far happier when it goes.

I have nothing to take to the afterlife, for my soul is worn out as my clothes.

My body is permanently tired; look carefully in my eyes and it shows.

I do not care much for my country, with its language that nobody knows.

I stare at the page like a mirror, which doesn’t like much what it sees.

I dreamed I was caught on a train track, with a train due to come within hours.

I don’t believe dreams can be interpreted, or we’d know ourselves better by now.

My radiators warm up in minutes, then shut down again just as fast.

I absorb myself in little projects, knowing full well that they cannot last.

I’ve also finally given up drinking; getting drunk is a thing of the past.

Writing is all I can cling to; how fortunate it is what I do best.

I open the drapes to my bedroom, and my eyes instantly recoil from the blast.

Today is going to feel like a long day, over twenty four hours at least.

It’s lunchtime for most people out there, but I can’t even stomach breakfast.

I wish there was more I could be doing, but what can you do when depressed?

I plough on through another section; I want this project written fast.

I take strength from the words of a compatriot: that I am a special artist.

I endure the day like a seagull, and hide myself away like a mouse.

There is something particularly dismal about living alone in a house.

I still remain obsessed with the ending, and the conclusion that I espouse.

I write these thoughts down unreflectivley, and couldn’t think straight if I chose.

Only my obsession with form and symmetry suggests further sequence; in truth I hope this is my last.

I knew that today would be awful, as is obvious from the thoughts I evince.

I wish I had more medication, aside from what I am prescribed.

Let these thoughts be a warning to others, and repel them by what I’ve described.

I’ve tried several self-help strategies, but the self they would help has already died.

I often feel like a ghost: you can’t see me. And my presence should shudder your spine.

I can barely believe I would spend so many afternoons wasted on wine.

The human race has but one enemy, and that enemy is the passing of time.

I spend these days writing my aphorisms, polished up so brightly that they shine.

I arise with so much sleep still in me I’m amazed I can open my eyes.