Tom Towers Reads in March

A long time ago, in a opaque e-mail to Phil which I regret, and he accepted with a wow, I'll have to return to this (though he, thankfully, never did), I revealed both the size of the lesions in my brain and the blood supplied to the same organ, by way of describing how they had recently shrunk or flowed rather than grown and ebbed. 
Feebly, and foolishly, I wrote and partially edited what are now the final instalments of the Tom Towers Reads series, a work documenting the return of my literacy (some semblance of successful short term memory creation and processing) yet the absence, still, of my ability to recall long-term memories without some prompting, and the perpetual sense of paranoia and déjà vu which resulted.
The series, as a whole, was an autobiography made and presented in the wrong medium. A Pater prose poem, not a Poe. In fact, it is one in the mode of the latter (recounting an earlier such shrinking and flowing) that haunts the style of these supposed reviews; part of a work rendering everything that I had written, post-lesions, up until that point an impotent impression of the whole of the work itself, its festering maggots gnawing their rotting prose.
Writers who disavow their own work, beg their benefactors to burn it on their deathbed, but do not burn it themselves, are cowards. So if I am not to move these to the recycle bin (and they are backed-up in so many folders, hard drives and clouds that I can hardly hope to eradicate them completely; as with most infestations, one is at its mercy no matter what one tries) then, out of shame, let me disparage them and publish them in their present—and chronologically increasingly unedited and underdeveloped, as the realisation of their futility slowly dawned upon me,—state, in the internet's very own outhouse,; where only those whose brains are as damaged as mine are likely to find them...
Which is also our new slogan: Game Under, for those whomse brains are as damaged as ours..."

- Tom Towers