i saw my mother last week.
i haven't seen her since i left my house,
a couple of months ago.
she saw me from head to toes.
worried.

i've lost 18 pounds.
my hair has grown 4 inches.
bags under my eyes.

she wanted me to go to a psychiatrist.
two days later, i did.
apparently i have depression.
they want me to go on medication.
it's funny how pills are the answer for everything this days.

i still don't know if i will take them.

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i started writing again.
it's been months since i've touched my notebooks.

i've given up T.V.
& food.
& sleep.

i've been reading a lot.

this last few weeks i've read:

- Junky by Burroughs
- Love is a Dog From Hell by Bukowski
- Poeta en Nueva York by Garcia Lorca
- Jim Morrison: Life, Death, Legend by Stephen Davis (for the 7th time)

i'm reading now:

- Betting on the Muse by Bukowski
- Complete Prose and Poetry by Rimbaud
- Wilderness by Jim Morrison

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i'm restless.
can't even sit down.
even less lay in bed.
i just walk around the house,
barefoot,
smoking cigarettes,
listening to music.
thinking
& taking notes.

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"i think i'm your friend,
probably just lonely."