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, the insides bleeding again, the spirit-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.” It was his “Salt of the earth,” he was safe from the soul-maggot.