Disassociation from the self (and yet, its serene acceptance of its amazing surroundings simply deepens its unceremonious sense of the sublime).

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My brain doesn’t work anymore. I was a giver – mentoring, awesome, hirable, amicable, familial,
well-to-do, well-off, prosperous, influential, renowned, dateable, mattressable. Life was more than jubilant,
and I was stuffed and dripping.

I haven’t any memory. I can’t write. All I can do is sign my name. I tried to write the other day – it looked like I was writing in Braille. See? It looks like spiders have written it.”


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