The guilt of a lost weekend

My dearest Myoki, like Lucifer, I have fallen.

No, to compare myself to Lucifer is unfair, for he was an angel, once. Not so with me. Even as a child I was a devil. My interest in the black arts started early and I often wrestled stray dogs to death. By the time I was a teenager I drank daily and wrote scathing sestinas and sonnets about my parents and teachers. I was not exactly what you would call a lovable tyke.

An old Aesthete "friend" (an aesthete's love of all things artful and false prevents real friendship you see) unexpectedly stopped by the estate on Friday. He held a gun to my head and read me his poetry. There was fire in his eyes--he was full of spleen and absinthe. His poetry was a mad jumble of words and bird noises; he said he is writing a book entitled "cacophonous cacaw." He told me to drink the Green Faerie or he would fire the revolver. So I drank.

Myoki, I haven't meditated for three days. I am full of guilt. I feel a horrid imbalance in my humours. My attachment to absinthe is strong, Myoki. I have poured it all down the toilet, now... But the ceremony was not without a sinister toast.

I would confess to you, Myoki, but I fear I would take pleasure in telling you my escapades and fall even further into the dark pit of my mind.

All that is left for me is death, Myoki. I am not a good man like you are. Do you remember when we drank that bottle of cheap scotch? You remained eloquent while I harassed the maid.

It is raining. I have not seen the sun all day. I am fearing the clarity of a sobre sleep.