I'm sitting here reading this stuff that I have written over time as a sort of memoir of what was and what could have come to be. It is like me being my one and only witness to my life. I suppose that goes for everyone, but that is besides the point at the moment. As I was saying, I am looking at all these notes, poems, inquiries, blurbs, so on and so fourth, and I realize that ....it sounds like there is a cricket in my room... No, that's not it, but it sounds like there is a cricket in my room. Anyway, I realize that I am completely overcome by some strange, neither big nor small happenings in life that sometimes don't even partain to me. My mind just caresses a thought for so long that it finally comes out in a lettered blob trying to show the sense and connections made in the brain, but never achieving full completness. Everyone, in their own mind is an author, whether of their own heroic story or the object of their and others' demise. My provincial mind has set itself on a purely complaisant diet when feeding on outside occurances. It's not so much out for answers, but connections, which lead to answers in its own time.

I feel that I have come to a stand-still and am slowly sinking into some foreign substance. ( I suppose I'm not standing still then, am I?) The world seems to be growing bland as the weeks roll on and new seems old before it is even experienced. I would have to account some of the blame to the millions of snoots, braggers, and put downs that rule today's society saying "I've been there, done that and want it all, had it all, yet I've still gotten cheated." Some things will always have a unique setting and place for each and every person out there, but the impatient, intolerant, and blinded are making the curious, striving and weak lose all hope.

That's enough.

Love.

(I copy and paste the same journals in three different places and not one person that reads them are the same.)