7-29-2002 || 8:02 pm
I couldn't understand it all anymore. I just keep shoveling dirt into my mouth, choking and swallowing the damp, loamy earth. Fodder for growth and roses. Against my nose, the glass; I can smell the cold air. It clears my fluid-filled lungs. I blink and never open my eyes thereafter, and flight takes over like a fugue, twisting between fisted fingers.

Stretched out on the sun-heated rock or upon linen moonlit through cracked blinds. The bass resonates and turns stray pages. I lose my place. Then drum beats vibrate, my ribcage thumping in time to the music. The noise drowns out, and I disappear, or am here. Inside myself.

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7-27-2002 || 4:21 pm
Could you paint the sky? I ask, the colors of my breath spreading like a blanket upon the meadow. The circle of clovers crushed beneath your feet thrive as everything else withers like age. Crickets pause and contemplate me. And I ask, What else could I wish for?

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7-23-2002 || 5:14 pm
My computer station just got moved, and I'm spending my time sliding across the ground on my rolly chair (whee) because there's no rug or carpeting. And of course I have to keep reminding myself that I'm legally an adult now...

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7-21-2002 || 3:51 pm
It's my birthday. I'm eighteen.

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7-14-2002 || 1:16 pm
I think I have been experiencing a recent dry spell. This horribly unproductive period has to end sometime though, and today is as good a day as any. I should go paint a picture or write a poem and feel the sense of accomplishment. Yes, there are a dozen things to inspire me at this very moment. Yet now, in the solid, heavy summer heat, they all slip away into a contented laziness. And all I feel like doing is sitting back, reading a good book and listening to Beethoven's Ninth blast out of the computer speakers.