Went for a long tortuous drive through the vernal exclamatory-shaped corn husks dotting the dun haze country side that is Fulton county. Stopped at a Casey's gas station somewhere near Banner marsh and picked up two six packs, a cup of grainy coffee and some cheap cigars. Found a desolate dirt road and followed it for about 45-minutes into the cricket-oratorio oblivion that is rural Illinois at winking dusk in mid July, sweat aligning my brow like beads on an abacus. The moon was an ivory enhanced magnified toe-nail clipping boomeranging overhead and the West was an incendiary sip of left over birthday party Tang. In the middle of nowhere I stopped the car, got out, took off my shirt and just started screaming, howling, cursing, Sylvia Plathing-out-of-control, casting imprecations of eternal impotency on the people I love who have really hurt me, the lovers who have abandon me, the friends' who have fucked me over, the makeshift nest of mistakes I have made. I screamed for five minutes as loud as I could, a koan of sorrow and loss. I then had a beer and forgave those I had damned, those that I love. Forgave myself. Driving away, severing the rearview mirror above the dashboard because now, after all this time, after all this hurt, I don't want to look back.

Phuck yeah, that felt good. That felt really good.