Memories of sanity

Let's get straight to the serious stuff shall we? A picture of poison.  Ironically the poison is in two senses.  Alcohol is of course a poison, drunk a lot though, and generally, although incorrectly so, not considered terribly dangerous.  But the other poison is in both the writing, and I recognise the handwriting ... Not mine.  Definitely not mine.  And also in the deliberate misspelling.  And also mislabelling in one sense.  Evidence perhaps of a poisonous mind at work?  Or in this case I suspect several.  A veritable witches' coven of nastiness perhaps.  But I shall be generous.  Some illness or brain damage of some kind.  Or genetic trait. In theory I am completely opposed to the death penalty.  But perhaps not for the reasons you might presume. The state differs from the individual in many ways.  But perhaps the most important way is in having the right to kill when it chooses.  Sure, there are ...

What you are about to read is fiction.  Fiction woven around real people in my family.  But fiction.  It is not true.  It is my feelings and memories of real events based on flawed memories and family hearsay ... Nobody can agree on solid facts and perhaps that is good thing?  Maybe I am the only sane person in my family.  And the mere fact that I write that makes me feel insane.  Hanging on to your sanity in a crazy family is almost impossible.  Almost.  Thank goodness I have though. I think.  Most of the time at least.  (We are all allowed a little craziness on our days off surely?) Feel free to judge for yourself.  I hope to move on to some famous people in my family eventually.  Their fame and success makes me wonder if several generations ago insanity, and a kind of genius that went with it were already present.  Perhaps in the genes. The photograph is someone I never met ... And yet I know them very well. Or do ...