April 10, 2006
It's 11pm. Beneath my eyelids is crimson. My head feels like sand. My ears are pained by decibels of small denomination. My pirated software is firing back at me. It's been no small waste of a day. There's no vanity left for me, no Great Belief For Tomorrow. Sad, criminal and petty resolutions await. Pitiful pornography, degraded thoughts, burned-up emotions. Chores with no joys upon completion. Unparked vehicles. Odors of animal waste. Clusters of bad vibes, no mojo left. Crust and dusty papers. The Vehicle For Tomorrow, this computer, is revolting and sick and damaged. Nightmares await. Pray for morning.