Allow me to quietly resume.

I have been resolved to write more. Much of it is on paper (in my garage) but I miss this. There's no audience anymore and I'm hip to that, but lately I am concerned about my death.

Yes. I resolved to return here naked if I did come back.

I want to move everything I've written here, but I won't. Some day when I get an hour I'll link up all the relevant shit along one side. Maybe. I don't know. I make a lot of promises. I'm all fucking talk.

Oh yeah. Death. I have a collection of notebooks in the other basement and a handful here and they are filled to the backs with aborted songs and useless musing. I like laying it out here, too.  Mostly, I have a son. I don't know my dad, but I want Huck to find this one day and maybe get to know his mentally ill old man who doesn't believe in mental illness. I hope it doesn't embarrass him. There it is. Huck Trudo. That was a search term. I wonder if that will mean anything to him when he gets to the age of understanding.

Dude. If you found this, I love you. You're 11 months old right now and asleep upstairs. I'm writing in the basement on Galena. You're incredible and beautiful. You smile a lot and crap like a 60 year old lifelong drunk. You have a strong opinion on most things and you don't really snuggle. You push anything away that annoys you. It's cool. I respect that. You love music and watching the television. You can't walk or sit up or talk about any damn thing and you decidedly prefer mom to me. And I really fucking love you.

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