Henry flying with angels a couple of decades ago, looking for a landing pad or a warm and safe place…. reaching his mother’s womb at some point, liking it in there.
It was one of those times when $1.99 seemed like more money than $2.04…
When the Doctor delivered infant Henry he got to feeling that life from here on was going to be a uphill climb.
And Holy Moses if drudgery and pain wasn’t the nature of waking reality and the material world to a tee, it was as though a flash, a two decade flash illuminated Henry that very moment.
Henry felt his journey through life was a death march run by corporate America and US.gov.com.
If his life was a mighty Cottonwood tree, burgeoning with leaves as eureka moments giving breath, in the autumn of his life the leaves disappeared one by one.
And below the Cottonwood tree there was a river, this river cascading through his life past, death and beyond.
And so it was for Henry as he continued to write feeling his work was unlike others, the others having sold out, politically and grammatically correct, yet; jejune, plain vanilla, dishwater, a literary community of panderers.
Henry the writer's writer, choosing to live in it anyways.