There were moments when he thought, there are moments when he thinks of returning to drinking. Ironically that is when he felt most in control; each step down the hallway to that dimly lit room was a wrestling move with his conviction, a furtive grope of a self-love so bitter “loathe” was a word written large against the setting sun as to be indiscernible. Just a big book he didn’t have the time or desire to read. That is the way to freedom and he would feel himself falling to and away simultaneously; it didn’t placate his soul, it fabricated it. The days aren’t so empty or boring but necessary now and therein lays the challenge of finding a new move to break into shape, paint it and roll it off the edge into his own sweet inevitable self-realization. Still he recalls with fondness the time in a NY state college town drunk off his ass and throwing a phone through a wall. And he smiles.