Writing, creative writing is like herding cats. Unlike a homework assignment for wayward Henry—the stuff surfaced when it was good and ready, coming from somewhere between the cranium and the navel.
Henry googling chronic pain and fatigue, his daily condition. Filing the resulting hooey and blah blah in the wastebasket of the mystery of medical science or —fucking doctors just don’t know shit and, be patient Henry in a few more years you will be dead.
Death a sovereign remedy and elixir, the best LSD trip imaginable or nonbeing and nothingness in the cold stark earth.
Dying for days, months or minutes, most of it long arduous minutes. Dying, vile and verbose, pain with many faces; cold and hot, sweating and gasping, choking as you shake, dry heaves or salty spew, begging for Mama’s helping hand.
This was the stuff of Henry’s life gone down. Carousing maggots, drunk and feasting on rat carcass. An Inglorious fanfare, a death march, a parade without audience.
Henry the eloquent carper, the majestic party poop. Far removed from the crowd with no way back.
It was his and he owned it he thought.