30th
November 2017
Dear Cassi,
I am putrid in my clothes not having
washed for almost three days being hard at work in the drafting of comics and
such. The nature of my garments is a disgrace as they are raggedy and stained
with cat fur bristling from them. I have discarded my undergarments some hours
ago as they had grown too saturated with the substances of the body.
The washer hums and so does the drier
with the items scraped from the floor after the garage had been cleaned. I sort
them finding in there long idle nature they had found detritus. Little bits of
things fall to the concrete as I go. Long stained garments and towels, things
you would revolt to touch, are a constant company to my work.
It has been longer than six hours since
I took food, but still I feel no hunger in this less than an hour past
midnight. I dine only when my hands become too shaky for the drafting table as
I draw comics as I work on other things.
This is me in the odd twilight of being
a man of employment and yet still surviving off an unemployment check. The
company for whom I work has no hours for me, and in the low point I work every
day as if I will never return to my labors. I work every day as if I will never
get another job.
I draft my comics as if my livelihood
depends on them. I draft hard and long, but as always I am behind in my work.
With some it is a matter of months with another it is more than a year of work
waiting for my hand to lift a pen.
The long hours are hard on my body and
my gut lives in me as some parasite digging into me and causing pain in my
back. My body groans as I rise, but I can only sit so long before my blood
demands motion. I know I need water as
the skin of my cheeks is cracked beneath my unshaven beard, but again I will
soon need to force myself to eat.
For the whole of my life I have
struggled with depression and this is only another battle in that long war. I
fear I will fight until my dying breath, but what else can I do.
Live strong, little sister,
Richard Leland Neal
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