1-2-93

It's here.  The fishless year that will test the boundaries of our individual orafiscosity.  Things are moving real slow now.  Inspiration is shallow and hard to come by.  Again my visions of the future are dark and unkind.

But it doesn't bite like it used to.

                    Washing towards shore,
                    A small, red piece of wood,
                    From a ship no more,
                    Speaks as it should
                    Of a tame sea gone mad,
                    A crew too valuable to bear,
                    A captain little less than a lad
                    And a destiny too sorrowful to share.
                    Be happy to know alone,
                    That this scrap of past,
                    To mine eyes like a beacon shone,
                    And allowed me one last gasp.

Ghosts inhabit the streets now.  Anyone foolish enough to emerge from their hiding is immediately set upon by the past, and so no one does.  My lair is a dark, cold basement and my respite is a solitary one.  The creatures that once dwelt here are gone now, dispersed into the nether realm by none other than myself.  A place to hide is a valuable thing these days.  And since there is no conceivable future left for the likes of us living, our very existence is a self-mockery, and our desperation to hold on a bitter comedy of madness.

But those former residents, those makers and dwellers of this home, if they have any link to their past and this world, well, then they know where I am. And after they search me out they will scare me into joining them.

Oh, cursed space.