Blocked.

I'm not sure what surgery might be necessary to repair it.  They used to do something electrical, maybe still do.  My fingers plunge onto keys mislabeled.  Words come back in foreign tongue.  There's a city, a village at least, coming back to me, in abstract geometrical patterns that I claim modern.  Novelty is a fine line between jackass and rip off.  The village is something to show someone, something that should be familiar.

Turns out I've got memories of things that don't exist anymore.

I'm not sure how I got here, where it is I am, at the moment.  I'm finding out my insecurities still seem as stable as freshman year of high school, and the only thing I remember from then are ripped jeans and wooden corn cob pipes.  I don't recognize a baseline personality.

I drink white tea and drink green tea.  And I stopped all layers of masturbation.  I hope.  Except that maybe I'm riding on some larger jacking hand, flipping me up in the air for a short ride at the apex, increased pressure at the nadir, and maybe the hand is increasingly desperate, both to execute, and unsure of what will happen once executed.  Caught in a raw state.  Blocked.  Like I said before a few times already.

Maybe it is true that loneliness distorts personality more than drunkeness.