The Frozen Man

There’s only one problem with man: the fact that he keeps going on.

Dennis Leroy Kangalee frozen head
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Somehow I am not sure if it will matter. In fact it won’t. Because I’ll still have to pay rent tomorrow, right? Whether it’s a republican or democrat, whether it’s Sunday or Monday — whether I’m what you’d call dark or light — I’ll still have to pay rent? So that says it all right there. And if it doesn’t matter, why play the game?

I’ve been a frozen man a long time, at least since my last suicide attempt.

I changed when I got out of the coma, somehow I felt the things around me differently…like a strip of flesh with the flu. Some call it a religious experience-peak flow-runner’s high. I don’t know. I don’t care anymore. But I do know that all my collected dreams, all my wishes, all the bets I placed — did not come through. I never played with my money, the gamble was with my life. And I enticed others to invest in me. And when I let them down, I couldn’t get back up. Only I wasn’t lame so I couldn’t be shot. I was frozen. Stuck inside myself. I had reached the end of imagination and there was nothing left for me to see or say. I was like a dangling spoon.

I knew a record collector who hooked heroin and every time he’d cook up, he’d bend his spoon into a question mark. When I asked him why, he said exactly. He was shooting the answer into his veins.

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