2-8-93

Time has become a rarefied commodity lately.  Chances of getting far in el projecto grande are pretty hazy.  Odd, reading about wartime atrocities lead me to think of her.  My mind is really lacking in coherence lately.  My body still despises me.  It's afraid I'm going to cave in on my heavily-heaped assurances.  Trust is a hard thing to come by.  Even harder to re-establish. Envelopes, don't forget the envelopes.

   Playing about with the wind's dark foes,
   Asleep against the rocks, few notice as it grows,
   The spire, the tower, black and faceless,
   Giving spur to death dreams unyielding in chasteness.
   As the sun climbs over the glassy sea,
   And throws shadows against the heavy wall,
   The sleepers are gone, and it seems it will be,
   That none shall scale their prison, so tall.

Heaven help the human mind.  Ignorant of everything that it cannot touch. Lo, here I feel the page, the pen, but my mind knows not of their surface or temperature, only that they are received for what they are to my flesh, not my self.

And who can I touch, if not with this skin?  Any whom I can convince to listen. Words are not truly formed at the tongue, are they?  They're back inside, look these aren't even spoken.  Here is my mind for a mind to behold, scrawlings on a page, little more than nothing.  But to some, these letters take greater shape, and I reside inside them.