from this week in June, 1973 (I was 28)
I have given up all my vices
and the day moves in a slow flat pace.
I have given up my glasses for repair
and I’ve found there is nothing to see.
I sleep sober and wake up healthy.
My dreams are innocuous haunts;
insignificant characters pull pranks.
I eat eggs toast and salad.
Maybe I’ll burn out my brain drinking tea.
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