leaving new york

so how about the psychotic guy from upstairs named Johnny (Gianni?)  pounding on my door threatening to "fucking break my legs" if I make noise again?  

pretty psychotic.

On the subway platform, there was a rotary telephone ringing, nonstop.  Empty office, subway platform.  For two bucks a night I guess those wooden benches are support enough for sleeping.  The curves and tiles of 34th are maddening.  Perpetual glow.

I think this blog is probably... oh, on its last legs.  I am probably still psychotic.  But I don't know if this is the venue for it anymore.  

Thanks, summer midnights, for rendering everything funny.

Thanks, Ketel One trucks for solidifying my theoretical loyalty to your vodka.  If I were to drink vodka, I would drink yours.  Maybe.  

Thanks, New York City, for catering perfectly to psychotic tendencies.  Good-bye.

I think I have concluded that the state of my psychosis relates directly to how far back in my memory I am dwelling.  To spend time thinking further about the past is to distance oneself from the present, and the more that happens, the weirder things get.  The other end of the spectrum is psychotic, too; to only have in one's head that which is directly in front... 

I like to think about what occupies my mind when I'm thinking or saying other things.   

Many of the same images over and over again, running continuously I suppose.