In my dreams last night, the virus of a client warned me not to mess with it like a big bully, I found my nail clippers, and author Gabor Mate showed up in a refracted chamber of my subconscious. He seemed increasingly tired of folks like me who buy books like his, only to leave them on the nightstand for gentle osmosis. Still, I could sense a lightness of hope in his heart, like he was stream-side, in a Puerto Rican cabana. Inside the realms, I stepped into the book and it read some of itself to me like a poem. As if Charles Bukowski, William Burroughs and all of their demons spinning in a transgender waltz, were offering me words from the book in a Greek-chorus-union of their drunk symphonic voices.
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