You Can't Teach An Ear, You Can't

So Many Means Of Self-destruction, So Little Time.

My God! People Say. You Have So Much Self-control! And Later: My God. You're So, So Sick. When People Say This, They Turn Their Heads, You've Won Your Little Game. You Have Proven Your Thesis That No-body-loves-me-every-body-hates-me, Guess-i'll-just-eat-worms. You Get To Sink Back Into Your Hospital Bed, Shrieking With Righteous Indignation. See? You Get To Say. I Knew You'd Give Up On Me. I Knew You'd Leave.

And So I Went Through The Looking Glass, Stepped Into The Netherworld, Where Up Is Down And Food Is Greed, Where Convex Mirrors Cover The Walls, Where Death Is Honor And Flesh Is Weak. It Is Ever So Easy To Go. Harder To Find Your Way Back.

Hospitalizations In General Are Blurry. The Days Are The Same, Precisely The Same. Nothing Changes. Life Melts Down To A Simple Progression Of Meals. They Become A Way Of Life Fairly Quickly. You May Welcome This Transition. It May Seem Inevitable To You. You Have Been Removed From The World. It Is All Right, In A Way, Because There Is Nothing So Sure, So Safe, As Routine.

I Have A Remarkable Ability To Delete All Better Judgement From My Brain When I Get My Head Set On Something. I Have No Sense Of Moderation, No Sense Of Caution. I Have No Sense Pretty Much.