2002-10-12 - 12:12 a.m.

Down this air like a red balloon falling from the sky. I don't know what to say anymore or what to do. And I could wait. Round this corner, sits a young boy, sitting against the pole of a black street lamp.

You don't know his name.

Lying down against the floor, the skin on my fingers is chilled like a frosted window in the morning.

And you don't speak anymore.

Never enough to speak, just enough to remember.

Darling, its like a rose (just a rose).

Yossarian Yossarian

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