2002-11-03 - 12:46 p.m.

All the time I have been here. Long hours sitting behind window curtains, typing. There isn't a star in my room, shining.

Evil things steal the air.

Rolling in the wind, my jacket ripples like splashes of leaves scattering when cars drive by.

You hear this now, don't you? Only you wouldn't remark it, admit it, show your face in full view. Underneath a mask or two, this is how you know to forgive or forget.

Right is always your fragile glass that you build fences and castle moats around to make it seem so strong, so firm.

Down comes this cold air from my ceiling, cracked with paint that is withering, stretching, twisting to fall quitely down.

It is all right, it is all right.

Among flowers and dry leaves, you watch like a ghost.

Running, riding, the tugs and ropes pulls at me.

You are so afraid to speak a single word.

Yossarian Yossarian

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