galaga

I knew I was moving in a negative emotional direction last night, and with Rick out of my life, I've had some trouble with balance. I've been enjoying all the snow, but I think I get a little stir crazy, even though you'd think I'd be well equipped to handle some unusual isolation. You're never really alone in prison, and maybe that's why it's extra hard for me to handle sometimes.
Anyways, this is what I did after I posted last night: There is a bar a few blocks away, it is a bar frequented primarily by young people. They have an old Galaga arcade machine, and I like to go down there sometimes and blow 20 bucks, blasting old Springsteen and on the jukebox, and drinking Tanqueray and tonics (Mom's drink). It isn't too hard for me to imagine that it's 1975, I haven't screwed my life up yet, Mom's still alive. Galaga, it gets me into a state. You know that feeling you get sometimes, when it feels like there is no time to sense, when 3 hours can pass, but it feels like 5 minutes? "Being in the zone", that's what Rick used to call it. I can get that feeling when I'm listening to really good music, too. That's what I have to think about when I imagine what the afterlife will be like. No time.
Gin loosens my lips, and "loose lips are bound to sink ships". I didn't really sink any ships, I just like that expression. I did do a lot of talking with these kids that are really friendly with me, but I can never tell if the friendliness is genuine or not. They seem to be charmed by my moustache. People don't really seem to wear moustaches anymore. I wonder why men started growing them in the first place?
So I was really drunk, it wasn't that late (8 o'clock?) and went home. I let Warden outside to pee, and wrote a poem:

BAD POEM
Curt, you slave
to time.
Let go, it's time--
to let go.
In the future, when
there is no time
there will be no future.
if that's heaven, then
God bless it.