That Parole Hearing That Morning

Shadowy solutions flank all problems. I remember waking early one morning with intense, crushing melancholy bearing down, nearly pinning me to the ground, in the midst of which was my obligation to drive to MCCX in Wartburg to provide assistaance to my cient who was up for parole. I recall the pain that throbbed as I was compelled to look at the interstate ahead en route, even through dark glasses and a tinted windscreen, whilst I suffered. Suffering in motion dynamic. I arrived at the reception area and met with my client's sister who immediately detected the prominence of my my heavy burden despite my weak attempt to hide it. But I got to work, which has always landed temporary redemption. After the presentation of my suggestions for the kind of structured home plan that I knew from experience the hearing officer would appreicate, and the "acceptance of responsibility utter during my client's testimony, it became time for my summation. I remember closing my eyes and and allowing my suffering to set loose. The acute whatness that emanated from me mouthpiece, which my memory still refuses to record, drew silent shock and awe from the prison staff and all the others, I was told such that when I opened my eyes I immediatly knew that the almost otherworldly honesty that drove my words had been very well received, with one guard commenting something about "straight from the heart." I felt so goddamned awful that day and look what happened. I did not recover until later, as is the routine of my chronic burden. But, for a moment, I hit the fucking thing out of the goddammed park. So it is true that both the rod and the staff can indeed comfort. I shall not want. All my wants, spat out, jettisoned into space, made all the difference. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days I have left of my life, but they won't, and that's okay, too. Breathe, my child, it will all be okay, until it's not.