So long, so much time, space spanning and unreal, causing me to write so small that the least pickled reader may cry to their gods in strife, like the life they've left behind in search of a kinder story.
But as the clouds rolled by, so did the tide smash against the banks, and, in time, the very walls of the trembling city. And thus the travelers were to descend upon the scene, screaming of reality gone bad, and hoping carnage alone will be enough to damn their souls.
Generations died again and again, when the flames claimed the seas, the terror did not cease. When the breaches of the former oceans' floors finally cooled and were at rest, the terror did not cease.
Only when the trumpet played did they harbor their thoughts.
Muscatel on the breath,
of a stranger; we've met,
under a spell or odd threat,
of beguilement or death.
Blanket soft calling me, I can't go....
Holy stomach on the moan, wait, wait.
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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