Flashing weekend, creeping, empty week. As far as what's to be done now, I can't say, perhaps working all the time possible is the only hope. There goes a major slice of the day. But to slip and fall would be disastrous.
They were crazed, quite crazed. The laughter creeping along the creek would have sent any person running, and rightfully alerted the wildlife of impending, imposing, possible mayhem. The alertness occupied the air in bulky masses, pushed about by the movement of the strangers, and the push or pull of the wind.
Unabashed in the way it foretold,
of a city of iron and a dream of gold,
the text was woven with conspiracy and fear,
Increasing like chainless fire each year,
Up to the point whence the book was writ,
Upon which the authors and their type quit,
this time-torn earth.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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