February 25, 2001: Self-portrait

His depressions start there, below his ribcage—he claims it quickly takes over until it’s run out of fuel. It could be thirty seconds or five days—neither he nor I know the origin of such untold chapters. A bleeding of the soul—stains so thick it colorizes anger. He talks of the pushing, to gain access to anything left behind. “It’s a negative to my creativity!” He screams… “Once empty, I’m left with a day I control.”