Nov. 30, 2003 @ 11:08 p.m.

I feel like a puppet master who makes retard, lame, deaf and blind puppets out of wax or some equally impermeable material that represents this feeling in my stomach, the empty one of pseudo accomplishment. When I’m gone no one will remember all these hours I wasted, sitting here in this old chair that needs new stuffing and a fresh new smell other than farts and sweat. I wonder if everything I make sitting here at this desk reeks of me or if it has a life of it’s own. If it has wings to fly with, dancing shoes to dance with and words to be delivered like lines from a movie script that will make millions of dollars, be remembered for years, used as the punchline for uncreative, unoriginal sitcoms and forgotten who those words came from. The source of my impacts will die like radioactive fields, like old man winter, like the still born child…like…me.