No, no mania, no. No sure answers; nothing’s certain ‘cept death, gurlee. I am god-damned sure, though, that truth flip-flops ‘cross these multi-verses and we’re all a Merry Gang of Pilates asking, “what is truth?”

Why does it feel manic? Because I’m wiggling myself at conventional convictions - giving my c-finger Louis to grave notions. Haberdashery.

No, no mania, no. Teasing. Playful. Opaque. Wordplay, foreplay. Four play.

Yer either on the bus or off the bus. On the road or off-road. Either/Or, Sören.

I became so absorbed in myself-as-illness that I forgot that I was funny and smart and kind (not my words). Eighteen (18) years of grief. Nine (9) or eleven (11) - depending on the method used to count - years of institutionalization.

What I want to say I dare not say. Not in this crowded theatre.

But, I will say that if my response to physical symptoms was on par with my response to my mental symptoms I would have died 23-years-ago.

I’m quite keen on life. Grab me nutter-butters and Call Me A Soldier.