PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE
RETICULATED DAYS IN THE LIVES OF A REGULAR MAN
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 CHAPTER 13
Maybe I've been black-balled by the Powers of the Underground Press; maybe the Postal Authorities are being snoopy brutal fuckheads; maybe it's Utter Fate I receive bills, Reader's Digest, junk-mail, & the occasional birthday card in my mailbox from this day onwards; maybe all my writing is failing & people are too embarrassed to tell me so, so keep quiet. No real mail for a week now. What the fuck's going on? If anything, my own correspondence has increased, I've been mailing many things to many places. I understand we all have lives to live. Sometimes I hermit myself from all the people in all the magazines & don't answer anybody because I'm tired from work & shit sucks my horse-shoes deep so all I am is the top of my head & sinking & fuck you & all involvements & praises & jokes & friendships can rot in the Hell of Silence. I know the feeling, but is everybody feeling such simultaneously, except me, presently?
Do I hear buzzing?
I crack pretty easily.
Self-confidence diminishes without response.
Increases with reaction.
I'm being a goddamn wimp-ass.
I wrote to Mark Weber asking what's up, what's happening, & he hasn't replied. Is he pissed off at something I sd or did? I shld mass-mail apology postcards to the world.
Admit my complete, unadulterated Guilt.
I more hope Mark is ok even if he doesn't write me.
Live Long & Prosper, Big Web, Brother & Fellow Heathen!