"The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness." -Christopher Morley

It's the screech of metal-on-metal, when a train is hanging onto the edge of the rail. The wail of a crackhead as he struggles against his return to earth. The arrogance of an unmufflered motorcycle that wrecks your desperate sleep. The relentless c-clamp wrenched around the stump of fibers that connect your head to your shoulders, twisting and squeezing until you are certain no blood can seep through. No rest. Not for the wicked or the weary, the sainted or the sick.

You believe no one will ever understand what it's like to live in your mind. You are certain no one should...including you. Aswirl in psychic sewage you thought had been treated long ago, you hope for the hypodermic that will lift you out of hell...or send you straight into its heart.

And every cup of suffering, real or imagined, is a valuable ingredient for the next creation.

And so is every ounce of pure joy. Rare, like truffles.

I do not care for truffles. But when I have tasted joy, I have floated and flown.

It is all the same.

Madness.