"It can't just be the alcohol. There's gotta be something else there that keeps coming out when he's drunk, like he's trying to get attention or something."

He's in the next room, head in hands, barely getting the gist of the conversation but understanding every word between the lines. Their voices muffled in the blanket of her bed as they continued to talk about him- probably unaware that he could hear them - but not caring if he did or not. The stupid fuck had done it again. Obliterated. Shammered. Drunk beyond a place that most can never get to before passing out. While this problem isn't as pronounced as it used to be, Hyde comes out of the netherworld sometimes, a couple times a year at least for a little mischief and self destruction. He's a hard one to kill, that rat-bastard.

"Maybe he's just depressed or something, living out there in bumfucksville with nothing but that damn website to keep him the least bit social."

"Now Lucy was 37, and introverted somewhat
Basement apartment in the same building she grew up in
And she drew
Little bobby who would come to sweep the porch
And she drew
The mailman, delivered everyday at 4
Lucy had very little contact with the folks outside her cubicle day
But she found it suitable, and she liked it that way"

Hell's range and breadth cannot encompass any finite number of levels and divisions. Its chaos can be a beautiful and strangely-addictive thing for its power alone. Depending upon which hell you subscribe to there are at least something like 95% of the world's greatest thinkers and artists that burn in misery, outside the small piece of dogma that is your own.

HELL HATH NO FURY like a spirit scorned.

What is this diatribe all about anyway? First we talk about a sad drunk and now we're pondering the reasons why Ghandi might be in hell? Yes, that's the problem. It may or it may not all come together; the jury is out.

The day-after sense of loss and depression that accompanies the hangover created by a night of self-styled spiritual mutilation does have an upside, if you can call the wild-freestyle slidings of emotion and dangerously caustic levels of creativity to be an upside.

Damage the body all you want. I can understand this for the fact alone that it may prevent the damage of the spirit. Some people cannot help but permit a bit of self-destruction every now and again - the trick is to keep it in reign, since you most likely do want to wake from the dark dream eventually.

Still he sits with his head in his hands, little more than a simple receptor at this juncture. Some will damn him for the devil he is. Some will laugh at him for the fool he plays. Some may replace their judgement with a little bit of wondering.

"What's going on in that head of yours? If you don't tell me then how the hell am I supposed to understand?"

I lift my head up from my hands to glance at him, offering a mirthless laugh as I walk out of the adjacent room escaping an assault of overheard conversation.

"How indeed. Trust me, I'm working on it."