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I sit at home and read: because home is where the work takes me. Or leaves me.

What is it ‘they’ say? “Home is where the work is?” Or is it “heart?” – “Heart is where the work is.” I am not sure; and it doesn’t matter, I suppose.

I sit at home and read and try to make sense of things in my head: subject, object, realism, dialectic, materialism, historical contingency, natural necessity. How do I explain all these without confusing myself and ‘them.’

What is it ‘they’ say?

And as I read and stack information in my head my mind starts to race and my heart starts to beat faster. So I try to walk away. But everything around me is information: images sounds textures. And my mind continues to race. And my heart beats faster.

Maybe if I read: “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” Johnson in Thompson in me.

Maybe if I masturbate I’ll get rid of the panic. At the end of a disgusting frenzy, calm? Quiet? No. Just more information. Sight sound texture smell.

My right eyelid twitches and I ask it to stop, but it just taunts me with a wink or two. As if to say, “…” – I don’t know; it’s nonverbal.

The feel of the keys on my keyboard on my fingers does nothing to assuage my feeling of panic. “No point mentioning the bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.”

But I mention the bats.

My right eyelid twitches and I resign myself to the frenzy.

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