2002-11-26 - 9:07 p.m.

A single voice, it talks. Short and sweet like lollipops on sticks. Description of eggs and bracelets, like heiroglyphics upon the walls. Of merchants and soldiers, words pass around them, like butterflies and mosquitos and dandelion parachutes.

This song runs on a little too long, they say.

Entry of kings and queens with garlends and laurels, serfs and slaves and peasants roaring with sounds and words and laughter and shouts and confusion and praise.

For much of the party and the people in it, they know not the host or the occasion, only that there is a party and that they are in it.

The question lies just above these finger tips, almost touching them, but not touching them at all.

Older precedences and older times take foot, claiming to prestigious ancestries who couldn't themselves claim to prestigious ancestries.

Links of rings and signets, indifferent irritation and awed reverence.

Stuff of ambrosia, stuff of things, stuff of nothing at all, it trickles a soft drip.

Yossarian Yossarian

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