I have mild nostalgia.

You know that moment late in the night beneath your covers when you realize there will be no sleep?  Is there a name for that feeling, Brooks?  You'll just provide "insomnia", but I'm looking for something meticulous. I've always enjoyed the saying, "I forgot how to fall asleep" - Let's just go with that definition, and maybe later you can bend the ear of your forensic psychiatrist friend for the word ...

How is Katherine anyway? Tell her I read her book on reprocessing bad memories. It was in the bargain bin of a coffee shop. Her current address was on the back sleeve beneath a $1.00 price sticker. I mention it only in passing ;P We both know I'm several days away from her, but I consider debating her quite often.

I was somber yesterday. It was your fault. You didn't show up to my last wi-fi location to catch me ... it made me lonely. It took me to a dark negative place.

You have to accept responsibility for my pessimism, as much as I have to take responsibility for what I did. I know that we're meant to accept responsibility for our own feelings, but I think that's bullshit. I don't care what the fucking DSM books claim; People will make you feel all sorts of things. Road rage probably being the easiest. What's really important is what we do while we're in the emotion. Because no matter how much desire or indifference rests inside us, it only qualifies the positive/negative definitions when we act upon it.

I know you agree, Brooks. How many moments of anger with Katherine went unjustified by her textbook quote, "I'm not responsible for how you feel"?

So. I walked along the main road away from the Presidential street names.  I unknowingly found myself amongst the hidden sins of this community; The section 8 apartments; Where raised concrete walls block the views of highway travelers. No one wants to see slums when they first enter the illusion of a civilization ... LOL ... My god, the businesses lost if wealthy investors notice TAXES paying for free room & board to the "wrong side of the tracks" as some call it ... City Planners designing blatant lines between the wealthy and the poor. You ever notice that? It was always obvious to me.

Did you ever get your mom out of the old neighborhood, Brooks?

I went random because of you. You pissed me off.  I hate waiting for someone that should be there but isn't.

67 should have been special, don't you agree? The unworthy waif I came across wanted to sell me prescription Xanax to "help purchase baby food", as if I'm gullible enough to believe such a con. Thirty 0.5 milligrams - was a bargain price for $25 ... You know my mother was addicted to those little footballs. I grew up with it. Her friends supplied her overuse. You know it makes me sick to even see prescription bottles?  67 didn't even have Alprazolam ... later I Googled it, and learned it was blood pressure medicine.

Imagine for a moment if there were success in selling these to some desperate fool? It could have killed them. This was a civic duty, Brooks. I did your job. You can't let this garbage multiply & spread. So you're damn welcome.

I handed back the meds and reached to my side pocket.  I quickly flipped & unfolded the five inch blade and drove it up through the platysma muscle. I brought my arm in close for balance and lifted with all my strength. It worked too. Not one loud scream, just lots of kicking and scratching. Remember to check the fingernails ... the top of my head still itches.

I carried 67 to the wooden alcove of nearby dumpsters. I chuckled at our dance. Rethinking it now, I've added sweet music to the memory. My release dropped the flopping head onto the stank pavement. I lurched on top while the sickening thud still echoed and fish cut through the epiglottis & larynx. The hissing whistle of the lungs were surely full of fluid, but I'm not one to play games of chance ...  Silence ungolden as the heart ticks away ...  Blood coughed out of the wound as I sliced passed the jugular. I nicked some tendons near the jaw and it unhinged itself.

It gave me an old memory ...

Did my mother tell you about 9? Blue eyes with flakes of silver ... one spot of gold in the left. I kept them in a mason jar behind the canned fruit in our cellar. I was still in my practice phase, a little sloppy and terrible about hiding evidence. One eye popped and drain itself before I could scoop it completely. I filled it with gelatin and sealed the break with glue. A horrible mistake. I'm always learning though. Was a rookie that found it ... Correct? Danny Bowzer? It disappointed me that clues were contaminated.

Luckily you uncovered the baker's dozen stacked behind the tool shed ... but you probably overlooked 9 all together.  Did you know if you slice the skin just right, that you can remove the covering of the head almost effortlessly?  Do you, Brooks?  Put your hand on your head and move the skin back and forth ... LOL ... it was designed to come off.  The meat was already decomposed (I should have learned to embalm) but you may have seen the clean lines I made to disconnect the tissue. I pulled the eyeless face all the way to the front but the mouth held on for dear life ... You have to cut away the gums, you see.

Yes, 67 reminded me of 9, which is a good thing. It connects the two. Creates a line of sensibility about this one.

It was garbage night. All that remains at the scene are a sanguine puddle and the snail-ridden flesh mask.  You should hurry. 67 now belongs to the landfill. I'm hoping for a search party. It does some good to get your fingers dirty again, Detective. It keeps the ego at bay.

Speaking of ego ... I am currently reading from Orwell's 'Animal Farm' ... remember that for future reference.