Many times before, Dead's form, bulky and lumped, stood in my way, and many times I fumed my disgust and anger through my pores, through my eyes. Some would say I was on the way to self-destruction, but Dead, he knew what was brewing, and somehow it was worse for him than if I would have struck out.
After the sweat had cleared, and everyone was back in place, the music box opened a can of cigars, which we passed about, in and around the party, the garden, and the beach and oceans beyond. The sceptre King held tight to his delusions, as pass after pass was attempted to dislodge his thoughts and quivering mouth.
When night approached on that dread eve, we found that the hole was gone and in its place was a marble gazebo, and upon one of its benches lay a wrapped object with a simple note: "Make way for us,/ or your way will be ours./ Have faith in us,/ or the faith will not be."
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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