2002-12-29 - 7:38 a.m.

Your dreams are supposed to be dim. Your sight is supposed to be gray. Your time is waning in your eyes, in your fingers, in your touch. Your lips have dried, like leather under the sun, and they stick to each other, stuck shut like lockjaw. Your mind, your heart, your soul wonders at paths lost, at being lost, you didn't want to be here, right now, at this day, at this hour. Your muscles are sore from too many nights saying "Its too late, I am too old, it is too late, and I am old." Your fingers type this tale of life that was supposed to be more successful, less like this, less like the failure you keep referring yourself too. Your supposed eccentricites and weirdness and witticisms are like little parachutes to escape from pain. Your ears are not hearing this. Your eyes are not seeing this.

Your time has always been here.

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