I might be fine physiologically; I can handle the heat. But spiritually? I'm not well. I feel cold.

It's hard. I'm being shelled with exquisite flights of thought: lined up and blindfolded, shiny metal rods penetrate tongue roots. I drool from my eyes. Blessed three sisters. (Give me strength to endure what I must, give me courage to fight who I must, give me knowledge to see the truth.)

Cry if you must. Be angry, throw tantrums. But do the do, motherfucker. Later, you will analyze and think and adjust your course. Not now. Not now, motherfucker.

You know the secret. *Choose to use it.*