I just need to make a note that I literally dreamed I stabbed and slashed someone into pieces.  I cut off every part of them, even each of their individual fingers.  Those were like chopping carrots.  Naturally, it was all the in self-defense, but what the fuck does dreaming something like that say about the dreamer?  Furthermore, I dreamed all that while sleeping in the middle of the woods.  I may have problems.    

Identity

It's like when you read a story about someone else losing touch with his or herself, you start to question your own understanding of identity as an individual.  Do you have it all together as much as you think you do?  Are you able to write yourself down on a piece of paper or are you a wonderfully abstract imaginary?  I walked into my living room tonight and I didn't recognize myself in it; I was a foreigner to my own homestead.  I looked into the mirror and my stomach turned as though repulsed with the unfamiliarity of an intense gaze.  Not a negative repulsion, a neutral one.  It's been a while since I have viewed myself as a third party.  
Paul Auster is a mastermind.  I must read all of his books.      

Checkbook Ryhmes

Broken record

I can't sleep.
It's happening again - the demons haunting me.
The mistakes, the shortcomings. The unanswered questions, no - the annoyingly disregarded questions.
The lack of celestial comfort. The presence physical ailment with no known cause.
Such a broken record.
Lack of purpose here. I guess I have no place in my hometown, my love.
Clammer down, my dear, into a self-harming dream.