i did things i feel bad about. when i can't sleep i think it's my conscience. it could be worse, i could have no conscience. people do so much harm, and all i can do is try not to do harm now, starting with myself and my immediates.

 some things i remember vividly. i just heard a coyote cry by the railroad tracks. but i forget things, like i don't remember if i paid for therapy wednesday and if i did i paid again today, and i don't know if my therapist will remember either. i'm not alone at least and we can help each other remember things, but some things we may both forget and look at each other abjectly. i was going to say helplessly, but we are helped. it'll be alright, we say, to reassure each other, it's ok.

 i just hope people i knew in the past saw some essential good in me and so forgive me. but i expect i'm essentially forgotten as their lives get filled with new essential things. that sounds a little sad, but not crushingly—it's ok. i move on too. i'm on page 50 of monkey boy. 

 reading, i just remember bobby c. saying he's in his own private vietnam, and i don't think he was talking about me yet he was at the same time and i thought what a strange phrase, what a strange cruel and indifferent thing to say. and i didn't say anything, or opened another beer, or i forget what i said, and it feels like i didn't say anything, or he wouldn't hear what i didn't say.