Come to think about it, I need to go to the lumberyard and get some more plywood for these goddamn windows; keep the warm, moist, thick air in and the demons out. Holy shit, what's that horrible smell? Who knows? I'm three thousand miles away and ten years younger now and, and...well to hell with all this shit. The flies are starting to push me over that edge I was talking about earlier and I'm starting to come down. I think I'll just throw this typewriter out of the kitchen window with all the other fetid crap and take a bottle of fine brandy with me down into the valley behind my house, shoot my pistol towards Joe Thiesman's house (I have never aimed directly at his house...I must resist the temptation... Get thee behind me satan) and contemplate this strange concept...reality...

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