I have this nagging feeling there is something very important (for me, at least) that I have not yet said. I’m not even so sure what it’s about, but until I have said it I wont be ready to die. I’m fully aware, though, that I could easily die without ever saying it. Is that what keeps me going? Or is only the fact I’m still breathing what keeps me going? Is there after all nothing that needs to be said so badly death has to wait? Well, having said all this I have a feeling that whatever it might be, it has something to do with death—not in a morbid but in an inspiring, a poetic, way.

In my thirties I was, by society’s standards, secretly crazy. On several occasions I drank my own blood. I extracted it with a syringe pushed into an arm vein and greedily quaffed the contents like a narcissistic vampire. I am no vampire, but I am part wolf. My parents did not know what they were doing by naming me Randolph (which as a writer I’ve taken as surname). All my brothers have Christian names (given), but my given name is pagan; it means “Shield Wolf.” It is common knowledge that names, to some extent, determine destinies. I know who and what I am, though I am still learning, and this self-knowledge will never be perfect or complete. Part wolf, part man, part god, part mad.

Sleep be the oblivion I crave until a more permanent solution be found. Nighttime is magical if only for the greater promise of oblivion it holds over day.

If I’d never gotten crazy drunk I’d never have brushed my wings against hell. I’m thankful I did because hell’s proverbs led to ecstasy’s academy of surrealism, to the mind-blowing wound of playful indifference to logic that smelled sweet like a funeral flower . . . or a field of wild herbs that have power to cure life of itself. Life always needs curing (in whatever sense you wish). Death, probably not; it is a cure of sorts, a big cure.