Saturday, March 29, 2003

I feel nothing. Is an anti-climax. Drained beyond belief. Fed like a fat cat and thinking like a dead one. This everyday battle is futile. Spurious even. No purity of cause. No long road. No plan.
I could sit here frozen and never miss the freedom of cutting air. I could watch my feet all night long like I never knew sleep. Never sleep and never dream.

Detached from my body and floating in amniotic fluid in the half-state between sleep and wakefulness. Life to ponder and vodka to pontificate. One slip and I will fall. Love or the idea of love?