He makes the decision to learn to type fast again and not be so dependent on the pen. He makes a decision to be less wordy; To see if it is more effective, to see if its possible to still be a dramatic and descriptive writer without having to be so dependent on adjectives. Squeeze it down and filter it out. Get right down to the point, noting that he can always add later if need be.
He also comes to an emotional and significant self-realization that he chooses to withhold as of this time. It all hurt so bad on the day he wrote what he is about to type: The writings of an unquiet mind pour from his pen via broken knuckles and shattered wrist; It all hurts today; All of it. All but the thing that usually ails him. It’s all physical pain on this day. Not the usual mental anguish, which was his first-born language right from the womb, today it was fingers, elbow, knee, ankle, wrist, ear and head. All at the same time. All moderate to excruciating. How had he injured his ear? Why was his penmanship more legible when he wrote an untreated broken wrist and knuckle?
He was used to the other pain being worse. He found himself stoned and nursing a miserable hangover, soon to drag his dull, limp and lifeless carcass into the shower to liquefy under intense heat of a mood enhancing red light bulb screwed in for this very purpose. The thought of water against his reptile skin made him crawl and made him woozy. He will spend a great deal of time in there on this day. Soaking.
Thinking endlessly in the dank basement bathroom as red colored steam floats around his head, slumped up as against the mildew-laden wall of the shower. Sometimes he conjures amazing thoughts, the grandest of ideas and sentences while in the shower: a predicament wherein he finds himself utterly fucked because he has nowhere to record his revelations. At times he even streaks across the basement, naked and wet, to find the nearest pen and paper. Or he finds himself repeating the thought in his head or out loud the whole time he bathes, like those awesome guys in the city, so he doesn't forget the proper wording.
Repetition has a major downside in that: if you came up with the something worth repeating so you don't forget it, you'll be repeating that shit for a pretty long time, steady repetition of the same word, idea or phrase means that you are steadily repeating the same thought. Repeating the same thought means that you aren't allowing your brain the privilege of creating new thoughts, because its too busy telling your mouth to repeat something.
What if you missed out on an even greater revelation because the whole time you were washing your balls or boobies you were repeating something retarded like a crazy person. A last resort is to try to write with the fingers on the hot wet condensation formed on the shower door and walls. Not too effective, yet the red light does make it barely legible. That is, until the condensation starts dribbling down, making reading the words an impossible effort, all dribbly.
Hmmmmm, maybe he could invent the waterproof pen and shower notepad set for others as strange as he. That would be easy. Plus it would strengthen his morbid obsession with the pen. But that wouldn't be taking The Long Road now, would it? Somebody may have already invented. I will check. Out of curiosity sake. Perhaps I can patent it and make a million dollars. He tells me I'm crazy, and that I should be weary of speaking too openly of this because someone could steal our idea. I make a mental note of the statement, but never let him know that I agree. Instead I tell him that it was my, and not our idea, and order him to get his stank ass in the shower because we have important things to do today. I can’t be late because of him and his floppsy hung-over state. Don't quit right there you know? He calls out from the bathroom. I made no attempt to figure what he was talking about or to respond. Instead, I wondered how long it would take or if we would ever find our audience...
