he couldnt see a way around it, there had been so many past dangerous, debilitating, depressing intersections with the industry, sometimes directly through its major institutions like the hospital wards, the pharmaceutical benefits scheme, the years of doctor shopping, could he crawl back again on his will and stand up to swallow the uncertainty of successful treatments however long term they become, the constant fear of little breaches of confidentiality like the more bizarre details patients confessed sexual promiscuity or stories of shocking public seizures or pleas for something to help this awful feeling or sordid details of psychic terrorism and toxic magick or genocidal ambitions or possession of nuclear weapons or plans for world domination or religious responsibilities to cannabalism... did he have the necessary abilities for coherence inside that fucking terrifying cubicle interrogation chamber busy desk hotel room smells everything perfectly sane and city suburban where those of us who are trapped in our heads and still sick enough to know it must prove ourselves in the face of endless formulaic threat analysis peppered by judgements downgraded by a bigoted divisionist conflict driven culture, we writhe in the waiting room staring at photos of human art who have become so much more easily discarded elevator music flooding our dreams, already swollen with loathing, panic and despair, with the jealous face of a foul hierarchy for the helpless, where the first step is finding someone to help you find someone who can assist you in buying the right combination of legal drugs to put you on the paved paper path of helping yourself.... "fuck it." breathing in deep feeling for his wings he tried to slow it all down. "this is a jungle needs renegotiating by me for my basic survival and sacred pursuit of happiness." feeling his horns tingling now, the demon went outside to pray for himself. when he stood up he saw how bright the moon had become, and this told him that if it were not for his poetry, it would be his own blood falling from his lips and fingers. "this cracked skin has got to go." when he had returned to his studio, immediately reaching into the toolbox for a sharpened axe, our demon friend smiled sweet straight teeth glowing and golden eyed overgrown countenance he stood in front of a full length mirror and addressed his bold self "is this where you wanna be when jesus comes back?" nursing the hatchet blade close to his face he kisses the cold steel "hell yeah i'll be here we'll wear a crown of dirt and split his fine skull with our axe!" later, before an early night he re-checks the transport situation, the company who runs the publicly monitored transport services can assure him that by the time he gets to his appointment he will be more tired than when he climbed out of a warm bed, made even warmer by the certain possibility of horrific nightmares of violent pursuit, high conspiracy, control machines, urban warfare, endless corridors... he will make it to the appointment, probably only ten minutes late at the worst and the panic attack that this causes will have to wait until then... everyone else is drinking a coffee before bed now but he has a cigarette and a glass of water instead cause caffeine reacts badly with the sleepy drugs sometimes and stresses out the muscles before you wake up he suddenly feels like punching something again "anyone know a good handsome cement or bronze age punching bag? i got an itch" someone in his head tells him hey chill sista count to ten! you tried meditation?" we mad our madness insulted "does organic lactose free milk improve the consistency of coca cola you fucking peon?" we scream hurling abuse... later he sleeps at last exhausted scared of the morning, hooves at rest despite reeling brain behind blank anguish eyeless aware of spirits watching him wrapped in her arms again, sharing something ancient and indescribable, which they also still feel usually always helps everything.