The Soul Maggot

Henry laying in bed at 6 am, just awake from a dream. He dreamed he was a full-blown narrative writer who worked at it. 

He had a taste in his mouth of what he wasn’t and what he was, but overall he felt like a slothful and sullen shadow of a writer.

The soul-maggot was eating him from the inside and he felt shameful and inadequate. 

William F. Burroughs called it a parasitic being—

Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage.

After reading Burrough's take on it he was, point blankly, a matter of factly, without prevarication, scared shitless and wondering—should I be worried? 

Henry soul-bound and circumscribed saying,

I don’t give a shit! 

I don't give a shit! was the salt of the earth,  the armor the dreaded soul maggot couldn't penetrate.