Writings » Home of the Dead 4 (A Chapter in Loss)

    On Monday morning around 3am, 1922-1993 was standing at the foot of my bed (which was a plastic racecar), reading from his book of original proverbs.

"Live now/create (remember that's "slash create," you little fuck), for soon your memory will be erased like a stepchild's             artwork," Patrick preached in a baritone register.  "Do not forsake the bake - pastry is tasty...thus, the lonely baker holds most     of the secrets."

    One good philosophical load of shit deserved another, so I kipped-up out of bed and delivered a flying roundhouse kick to his upper forehead, defying gravity/breaking his mind apart like a super-glued porcelain vase crumbling under the weight of past mistakes/dad coming home from work.  This illness/coming of age garbage was getting on my nerves, so I ditched Patrick in a nursing home (a.k.a. I locked him in the shower and treated him to a cold-water and urine therapy).  The contrast in temperatures/flavors would supposedly wake the demons within, bringing the patient back to an acceptable state of mental being.  Instead, he ended up contracting the aids virus, which served as a constant reminder that torture and friendship were timeless concepts.