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| The truths of religion are never so well understood as by those who have lost the power of reasoning. - Voltaire |
| 02/18/03: White Light/ White Heat. Loaded isn't great. 02/19/03: Becoming a hermit looks better with each passing day. Essay two of semester two. An adaptation of the previously mentioned essay for the school rag. 02/23/03: I saw an advertisement for a new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turltes TV series, which will undoubtedly be crappier than the three reincarnations of Transformers combined. 02/27/03: I found "the spot" to be quite exceptional today. Its serene appearance was heightened by the snow thinly layered upon its surface creating a beautifully desolate landscape devoid of any intimation of man's wretched existence. However, this scene was spoiled by the thought of the sole thing that was lacking, an individual to share it with. Don't you see them? 03/02/03: I'm alone. The Journey. 03/07/03: The first perfect score on an exam in awhile. 03/11/03: Pain. 03/12/03: Empty. 03/26/03: Disillusioned. Listen to the first part of A Discourse on Theology. 03/30/03: The rumors of the tempest spread throughout the multitude. There is a 90% chance of rain. The second part of A Discourse on Theology. 04/06/03: As I ventured down route 68 in my automobile I saw a bearded old man traveling in the opposite direction in a horse drawn carriage. Intriguing. 04/09/03: Verily, perdition is extant for earlier today I found myself there. The Acquisition of Freedom. 04/14/03: What a beautiful, horrible day. 04/18/03: Atrophy. 4/20/03: On this third day I am alone and though there is great radiance I cannot see. I do not stir and remain dormant for eternity. 4/30/03: I am blind. 5/10/03: "Do you remember when we were in Africa?" 5/23/03: It only gets worse. Page 1. Page 2. Page 3. Page 4. Page 5. Page 7. |
| Harsh calumny exudes from their mouths. The tree grows slowly as the fresh roses are cut with a posthumous fervor. Painful derision causes the spine to jerk as the member hangs flaccidly. Deranged, they headed toward the mortuary. No, I'm fine. It's peculiar, the way you dress quickly after disrobing. Sorry, I didn't mean it. Mangled it stands silently elating over the small contusions formed upon the sanctimonious flesh. Disillusioned. Poignant memory. Persistence. Ache |