On Sunday Henry turned on the TV to watch the news about the coup in the country his was living. The TV was shut down by the military, they didn’t want news spread that ran contrary to the party line, he felt like he was in a Orwellian box of some kind, with Asian politics moving more and more to the right.
Thinking, “Oh what the hell, I live in my head and don’t give a hoot about politics.”
Henry enjoying detachment as an outlet, realizing that the world of dreams was for him, after all, it was the source of most spiritual life and inspiration.
Henry cared little about things out of the realm of dreams and spirit, never looking in the mirror, throwing on unmatched clothes, never washing behind his ears, bored sexually, caring little about extras, existing only to hover in the spirit world.
He counted steps as he calculated angles thus taking the most expedient route from A to B, this allowed him to spend less time in the material world and more time up on the magic mountain.
On Twitter Henry followed other authors, wondering why they all wrote the same? Romantic horror spy thrillers, where were the Bukowskis, the Burroughs, the Hunter S. Thompsons? Was something wrong with Henry? Or did his writing style set him a cut above the rest? He would prefer to believe the latter.
After all Henry was writing about higher stuff you know, the stuff of the Gods…