The Soul Maggot

Henry laying in bed at 6 am, waking from a dream, he dreamed he was a full blown narrative writer who worked at it. 

Awake with a  taste in his mouth of what he wasn’t and what he was, feeling like,  a slothful and sullen shadow of a writer.

Henry busted up plenty too,  his insides bleeding again, the soul-maggot eating his guts away, he felt shameful and inadequate. 

William F. Burroughs called it a parasitic being—

“Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage.”

Henry after reading Burroughs take on it,  point blankly, matter of factly, without prevarication, scared shitless and wondering—should I be worried? 

Henry soul-bound and circumscribe saying  “I don’t give a shit.” " I don't give a shit" the salt of the earth,  the armor that the dreaded soul maggot couldn't penetrate.   

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