2002-11-28 - 9:36 p.m.

Yellow light on my skin, old and oily, like leather and grease. On the air are sounds and talking, another Thanksgiving, but Thanksgiving changed for me two years ago. Under the shadows, under the wind that blows, and under the light that falls, I am remembering whether I know it or not. Round about in certain silence, certain familiarity about it, like an old companion, an old ghost.

Now, at last, the guests have left, and now, at last, I suspect it. Ending the age, ending the stage, the candle's flame grows near its end, than shrinks slowly, then steadily, then its glow goes black. Waiting in the dark, pitch dark, I wait for the whispers, the slight touches of memory and ghosts.

Ears can only hear some things. Not everything can be heard, not everything can be spoken, in this dark, my hairs listens as much as my ears. This is it, you know, in this darkness, I could lay and forget and be forgotten. Rights and wrongs, justice and mercy, mistakes and consequences, such dignified words, mean nothing in this darkness. Yet darkness is not dark and justice is not justice.

Yossarian Yossarian

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