Too many plums will make you sick. Then again, maybe you weren't feeling well to begin with. Perhaps you weren't well is to begin with. Perhaps it's been a festering, sugar-coated state of affairs and the slivovic of reality has fermented to a now undeniable froth. You know, I don't drink much. This isn't about drinking. It's about feeling. It's about doing. It's about living with the layers of complexity that crawl from time to time, one upon the other, each in some circadian rhythm creeping up to the surface and demanding attention, demanding importance, shifting up to the soap box of my cerebral cortex and screaming, "Me now!, Me! Me! Me!"
"Oh, fuck that" should be my response more often. If only I would learn to breathe. Meditate. Put things in perspective. Care less.
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