I'm not heavy, I'm a sausage made from pork and beef

My brain is turning to pepperoni. I knew it would. And so what?

Heard a beautiful poem earlier, spoken in Gaelic. Made me really sad. Such a big mistake, not learning it, long ago. As it is, just fumbling about, thickly. Relating to the world outside—ostensible, ultimately unproveable—in this alien tongue, unsuited for my processes. Misshapen sounds, imprecise meaning.

Sometimes I feel as though there is a caul separating my selves, constructed entirely from the limitations of my understanding. As if the thing I'm looking for so desperately on that beach at Whithorn is me. And the roiling water between us is the symbol of my inability to reconcile my true self to the things I percieve outside it. It is the slave language I am filled with, it is the Roman idea I cannot abide. It is dissonance.

It is pepperoni, for fuck's sake.

And it, too, is finally me.