I’m crying anyway. I’m afraid the surgery didn’t work, I am in pain again and physically, with my hand on my body, it doesn’t feel right. I’m back to the state that I was when I started this page, waking up crying for no reason and then writing long streams of conscious thought to see if I can pick out some reason why, like examining the vomit of a suicide attempt victim to see if you can find any of the pills, to know what poison to treat for.
I wonder if my literary friend looks like Alan Rickman now. It’s been many years, and he did have that potential. He was amazingly gay, in the classiest way possible. Meaning he was brilliant and deserved the highest respect without even considering him as a sexual, or even human, being. And that respect was ironclad and untouchable even if you found him passed out on a trail in the woods covered in nothing but glitter and dirt at 10am on a Tuesday.