SMACK in the middle of my garage floor

Remember Papillion, that he had skewered insects for sup, under the only remaining light, the tether to material success...that map he'd trod! Just like as I had lain in the parent's garage, my parents--mind appearance, scraping down to the bottom of the barrel. Laying in the dog blankets, trying to sleep, smoking cigs off of the electric heater... she sparks, decays to ashes too quickly-- The moon edges closer, reminds me that life better seem a little more dear. My mettle is in the perusal of Crowley's Confessions in my life of denial of purpose, but I think hard about reteats. The Sitting. The 25yr span they can take. In Crowley's Book 4, dhyana developing in my mind that results were succored-by-everyone...whoa the potential, whoa my union past the transperancy of walls. The angel of the room, devatas in Hindu, guardian angels called ophan in Judaism, makes the white noise vibratory properties emanating therein a refuge..., but things around me like the work bench soaked in motor-oil, car parked w/front bumper at my back, a bike or two, a basketball, the moon and purple sky looking all glossy, glowering even, are all in the way and I am prone to falling into its agency. To the extent that I was using tobacco and psycho-tropics, an unhealthy unknowing would not subside--I thought I was bumping into things. The same white dot throat pain, an image that wouldn't go away before my eyes, made introducing any new moments to imbibe release rather full of languish and w/nothing restored...to milk blood would no longer have an encouraging result. Alternatively I mused over the third and last times I had tried to shoot up. Green dreams in my weary mind, still were green of vital proponets in belief of my having turned self into a demon--singular and stereotypical/ new yet old terra-firma in sentient greed. Danielle sat across the room from me--this occasion, Rob spiked me twice, missed twice. And tho' I felt my body atrophy from what I wanted to do to it, this retension was movement enough that my visualization acumen seemed credible, worthy of the rapport I could imagine with some inner-antagonist & my response to self-guilt. The mantra, I'm Not Going Anywhere, and all the certainty it preserved in the question of finding oneself in the fray, had lessened value...almost done, verily I'm concerned, my attitude also seems too light for the edutainment I expected in my reckless behavior. Hard to laugh at myself then and there, so I receded back into a chair of a thousand deaths. The garage would subdue me this way, too--as public an event as the intimations of family would get--my languish was impossible to penetrate. And all things are possible when you are really unable.