2003-03-16 - 11:06 a.m.

Permanent swinging in the air, like a watchtower in the sky. On a wheel of slime and pebbles, gritting against lips and tongue. Most people would just see on the top of their voices; most people would. Surfaces of this star, like hot steam blowing through my hands; it's like a tea pot breathing into my hands.

Write an entry to pianosa's diary of non-sense and possible madness.