“There’s a lot of things I wanted to do and succeed in, but I fell down or stepped back or took a different course. I ain’t happy with myself, but I’m comfortable. I’m content. I have a dog and a place to live. I was homeless for 20 years. I used to sleep right here on these benches, and he lived outside with me. The place I moved into didn’t allow pets, but I wouldn’t live in a house without him, so they let me have him. He’s more than a dog; he’s my therapist. I wasn’t always a good boy. I couldn’t take responsibility for anything. Now I think about him. It’s only him and me. If I don’t come back home to feed him, he’s stuck in the house by himself. He’s my reason to come home.”
“How old is he?”
“Ten. We’re about the same age, we dress alike and we both have beards. We pretty much look alike.”
My dreams are almost always ultra violent. I don’t like it, sometimes I wake up unrested and with a pounding head.
Like last night I don’t even know what the fuck this dream was all about. I was in some kind of military style training camp and something got out of control. So, suddenly I’m fighting my way out of tons of people and its grueling and brutal. Then the whole camp get flooded by waves so its all the fighting of before except now in knee deep cold water.
Why can’t I just have nice dreams? Puppies and nature instead of breaking bones and rivers of blood.
Don’t let the media warp your perception of beauty. Beauty is pizza.
206. Ronnie: Somerset House, London
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