I woke up with a hangover.
It’s a Saturday, after all.
The feeling in my body was a reminder to slow down.
To take it easy during this whole ordeal.
Today it felt like a day of just getting back into my own skin instead of floating around the cosmos that I hold just outside of myself.
I sat around like a sloth.
I baked up some puff pastry hand pies, whipped up a Bloody Mary or two, and tried to not think too much about the void.
That’s why Allen Ginsburg took himself into a stint at Rockland State Hospital, aferall.
In the early 1950’s. Maybe late 40’s. I could never really tell.
He claimed to have been “thinking too much about the void.”
I fear that every now and then.
On the cloudy days.
That I’ll get too deep into my own psyche.
And I’ll have trouble getting back out.
Today wasn’t one of those cloudy days, for the most part.
I had a few things to look forward to.
Like writing this letter to you.
.
.
.
“I’m with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter.”
.
.
.
Micah Mabey
