2000-04-07 - 9:53 p.m.

After you left, I watched the space that you stood, as if some part of you remained there. All the clocks were ticking, insistent, persistant, constant, telling me that I cannot stop it, that I cannot push it back, but only be pushed by each tick and tock.

The silence isn't as painful as you had thought; it whispers comfort to me.

Ranting inside my head, I condemn you for choosing the known over the unknown, over me. Against the sun's rays on my back, I linger into sleep thousands of miles away.

Evil time, evil responsibility prods me, pokes at me, like mosquitos, sucking out my life, my blood, my euphoria. Fluoridation somehow factors in, in my half-awaken madness, I imagine the whiteness in water.

From my mouth, you made love to him.

The orange sits on the table in the same place you left it last night. Fringe and strands dangle from my sleeves, sleeves too short for my arms, but I want to wear them.

It happens you were here; it happens you ran away.

Turns tha old song, the song of abandonment, the song of rejection, the song of forgetting.

Out of my reach of my fingers or the reach of my voice, you sit away hours in your wedded boredom. The ghost looks at you through the windows, and turns away, walks away. Loonies cry at the moon's falling, at the moon's drying away in the sky, into that pale, morning white blue sky.

Might you have cared, might you have kissed me.

Have all the world, but for this might have been, might have done.

Been thinking of you, thinking that you are not thinking of me.

Onto a new phase, a new stage, a new act, I am dead as Yorick, you are as dead as Scrooge's mother. Something tells me, something tells me you could make love to me. Sort of ironic, that if I could make love to you, I would lean against the wall, look at you, and hesitate.

Of horror, of hell, of madness, I would and could not move.



Entry,

Yossarian Yossarian

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