The fuzzy feeling in my head is still around. Guy and Sherlock are both in my mind as one word keeps popping in and out: discombobulate.
Palahniuk was the first bringer of good fortune in my life. He came up with my kind of country club. One of dingy basements where the concrete floor has enough give to crack a human skull. Where Pollock wears a different frock and Dexter has a masterpiece to analyze. It would have made Denzel proud to see death in the living.
Every time I let myself die a little it makes me realize just how much more alive I am. Because every time I give away a little bit of my soul I know that it's a tiny fragment of my life that lives on somewhere else. I've been genetically programmed to think like this...
And tonight I fought. Not a controlled environment like I do at the gym every other day. I dress my hand in boxing wraps and sparring gloves, warm up and then juke and jive tossing in a cross every now and then to keep the punching bag guessing. Everlast is a clever one.
On the wooden floor in a second. Using momentum and brute force the next to position myself in just the right way I sweating waiting for the next shift. Another one runs in and tackles me stealing my breath from under me. Face on the floor and my kidneys just got crushed. I jack knife with my legs and slam my forearm into a neck - not mine.
His back flat on the floor, my left temple throbbing and three dead knocks on the floor and it's over. I'm covered in a rain of salt water coming from everywhere, the room spins and the light is crystallized.
And now my body is at peace - warming down as my mind chooses to begin its own race. It's always something with the human body.
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