Reflection, always too much reflection. Living my life while writing the book of my life. Outside of myself looking back through my own eyes - too far down the rabbit hole, deep inside of things that are sometimes shallow. Gimme a little more shallow, shallow is lovely. I drift between being so intensely inside of the moment and then outside looking in. The latter state is a kind of hyper-consciousness, and this is the disease of the artist or perhaps every man or woman with some urge to re-create the world around them. In this state you become the patient and the shrink, you are the passenger of your own trip. Slightly anxious. Slightly mad. Sometimes melancholy. Sometimes euphoric. One half of you feels like the child holding tight to a balloon and the other half of you is the balloon, always getting high.