I was trying for the right words, I was thinking about a tale of childhood in the darkness, I was thinking about a male point of view maybe. A story an essay about a child sitting in a pitch dark basement with the putrid smell of dead rats and holcing onto a puppy and crying.
So Meant by good job was my way of saying I wish I could tell my little story half as well as you told that one.
I think I will call it beyond fear, beyond pleasure, call it unlove
call it the death instinct.
after I overcame my fear of the rats and the darkness, I cried and begged Crazy Mike not to send me down through the trapdoor in the floor down the stairs, then he would remove the light bulb and close the trap door and then wheel the safe on top of the door so I knew escape was impossible, but why the hell did I have a puppy with me that time?
There goes the truth, at 186 thouand miles a second
neural velocity and consciousness
old mellow thoughts
I can not remember why I had that puppy with me, had I begged and cried for mercy did let me take it with me?
the truth
he knew me
all too well
I would alteranately hug the puppy to me and then I would terrorize it by holding out from my body and then I would spin around with my arms extended till the puppy mewed in fear and then I would hold it to me and put my face in its fur.
dream did I dream that or did I do that.
for years I have believed that I did it, but now six decades later I wonder.
Is that one of the blessings of longevity
