The caller. It was like talking to no one. there was a person on the other end that I didn't know. I couldn't ask. So forget it.
Second section dealing with ideas of what's to come: blank. Open up a book. Fish out those tunes. Ruttledge. I just don't want to write now. I'll perform a magic trick first; I'll take a break.
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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