I left the shelter in the middle of the night. It was winter in Oregon, with rare light snow, and I was walking down the block past the Safeway, and one of the homebums, a methhead, I can’t remember her name now, was sitting on the step of the side entrance, not shouting Tourrettically like she did, just drinking a 211. She could tolerate me because I was passive where a run-of-the-mill citizen would make an earnest face of talk in counterfeit community and draw her hostility. Years later I let her stay the night with another homeless guy who always wore black after I had started using meth. Then I was just addicted to weed, crabbing money out of my check from my payee mother to get a gram and some cigarettes everyday, washing my clothes and taking a shower in her house at 7AM every morning after a night in the shelter, getting my cash, and bumming around the rest of the day. One guy, John, I think his name was, used to try to reel me in, chinting harassment, trying to get in my head to balance the display of my interaction with my psychic sphere, as chaotic and semibroken as it was and is, trying to pacify it into the darkness of the still. I would, at least to my ear, be mimicking his voice, word for word, in his voice, as he hurled a string of insults countering my image in his mind, I presume, “ … , FAGGOT!!”, as I timed his words like tokens, verbatim, as they emerged. I wonder if I was, to a normal’s ear, mumbling something I could not here, incohering to the modex of a cameral eye. It’s like I was operating on a level where that drive to fulfill autopsynosis was counter to society, when, in fact, it is what spawned it, from the pharoahs to Tesla, from the field of God to Sumer, and all the life on Earth before it, but I do not know that. Eventually, after moving to the midwest, I had another 2-3-year long episode of addiction, destroyed a cheap condo trying to remodel it as a studio while under heavy debilitating IV use, lying about it, and, since I looked crazy, was put under a probate case, and now I am ward of the state. My mind is an internet, the so-called norm truncating any spiritual holness as, as my fentanyl dealer once saw a cartoon of me, if I won the lottery, but instead of transitioning to that holonic membrane, everything iust blacks out for that character. I have had a schizophrenia diagnosis since 2006, but I have been sober for 15 months, and my diagnosis will likely be downgraded to Substance Use Disorder, as I am tapered off my m
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