The parenthesis, (o), is an inexplicable blank. An empty chamber. An uncalibrated round of muted applause.
Not much has happened in the intervening years - psychosis; invalidity; crippling paranoia; sedation - but the churning underpins the explanation which one fears is inevitably demanded. Continuity.
There was a brief period of incarceration, stick it to me two times, I confess, but let's not infer anything incriminating beyond the merest suspicion of guilt. Less than one grain. Diluted twofold.
The first evolved over 48 hours at the close of 2011, my own Protex Blue. The second involved a short spell on a psychiatric ward some months later, but ended in my walking away too, nonetheless pursued, though I'm determinedly not about to begin fingering Blind Meloncholy. Washington, Jefferson, Nixon or a burned out Ford. A peanut harvester down on the farm.
My complexion is far too wan to properly pull it off.
I shed a lot of weight - identity too - put it all back on in an instant. Consenting to medication. The cunting Procurator Fiscal tailed me relentlessly, would not let it sleep, but the courts found in my favour regardless. Not that their wigs are deserving of the merest thanks. A woeful tale of the indelible stain of an unwarranted Section 38. The rifled baggage of a marriage. Divorce.
The fiscal's representative nursed acne scars while I nursed an unspoken grievance. My own scars. The fuckers detained me but would not let me speak. With or without proper legal counsel.
And so. I'm back in black.
Rum and Coke, Rye and Coke, Brandy and Coke. The Aripiprazole without the coke.
I'm not being deliberately obtuse. Just a little soused.
