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The Past

Saturday, October 18, 2003


I awake. I lurched my way to the bathroom to discover Glenn. I know he'd already been found, but It felt like something important. I grabbed my necessities and headed out to the porch. I felt the handle, warm from the previous owner. I felt as if it was mine now. To control, to govern, guide. It was cold. It wasn't supposed to be cold. I felt cold. Something lost and slowly climbing its way back to the top. I tried to reach out to lend a hand, but I feared the touch. I always do. I'll never be the same again. Me..

I want titles. I want moods. I don't do links. I need something more to express myself. I need community, feeling. I've never wanted that before. Popularity? No - disgusting. I don't want blogger. I realize I need to move on to something better. I talk to much. I analyse too much. I speak british english. I want colours. Auburns and reds and yellows and blues.

As bolTON reads he lies on his left side, perched up on his left arm supporting his head, book at the perfect angle. As he progresses, he slowly lets his arm slip higher up on his head. It's like a slip and slide of hair. bolTON. Moments later, he re-aligns the book to fit his new stance on psychology. It becomes a 45 degree angle with his elbow, still supporting his head but less interested. He turns the page. He doesn't want to go on, it pains him. Constantly; psychology. His head rests on the pillow, book on his chest maybe. Uncomfort. Snoring. Almost a waste well worth the time.

Too much at once has happened lately. How do I follow-up? I want to so badly but I looked too far into the future and it's gone now. Randomness is my key to success but my words can't be as such. Neither. If they were random, you'd never understand. What's that anyway? Does anyone ever understand? Inherent evil. Selfish. Stupid. Evil. People. Coca-cola. Calendars. Doodad cups. Snails. Windows. Refrigerator. Disorganisation. Social committees.

How am I supposed to feel. I never stopped, I just kept going. At some point the road ended, the dirt began, sunk its way into my teeth, and stole all my possessions. Powerful. I'll never be anything so greyt or special. I am me. Dirty now. Toothless. Scared. Afraid. Painful. How can you all say anything. Feelings are inept. Lonliness is always a lie. Absence of heart maybe. Back pockets and worker bees. Trees and cows. How do I know what is 'right'? heh.. questions. This may sound depressing, but this is my mind right now. This is what I want to convey, to pass-on, to link somehow the way a mind does not want to be connected. My posts will be my mind's eye unless I find something else important. Only thoughts are important.

Boys suck at sucking. bolTON said so. Psychology, mind you. Brains and dryers. Computer me now, please.

Try imagining the purest blue. Crayola doesn't make the colour. It's in your head. Have you discovered that shade? It's not a shade I suppose, it's the purest. Minus blemish. Untouched and pure. I want to be pure. Possibly not. Do you know me yet? Yes, you. Do you want to? Come find me, now. Now has left, so try again later. Words are such a lack of feeling. They suck. I won't speak your leet, or whatever you call it. Does that make me uncool? Fuck. You.

Red necks (two words, *giggle*) and horses probably go together so maybe I'm improving. We'll see tomorrow. I will return again.

Grey (4:51 PM)

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