2-11-93 Thu..... thu ..... Thursday.

Lack, oh, lackey.  Unable to respond to certain jibes, my synthetic other crumbles against an unbalanced onslaught.  After certain truths have been covered, when a whole word has been built around the burial mound of the real, then the open area upon which my mind considers is a dread to the last, last credo.  Help the holy.  Begin to dream, for what you see awake, is what you get.

Make a small satchel for myself, dark and confining, impenetrable to the eye, and carry me about, so I may never see these things again, and they may never see me.  I'm tired of experiencing.

Where's my time?

          Blowing across the days,
          Enwrapped in a confining daze,
          Runs about the brittle maze,
          His hopes, his appeals.
          But deep within a caverned hall,
          Triumph like a train doth call,
          And though his thoughts by far do fall,
          Beneath the churning squeals.
          Prepare a shoddy grave,
          For penchants holy, yet to save,
          And under passion's parries he reels.

And as the ands trickled out, his obscure sense of writing flew down each page, attached and undistinguishable from the original.  Prays God.