Saturday 4/01/2006 11:00:00 PM

If you will not hear what I have to say you should not read it. It's a cautious stalk of solitude I grow on now. The flower dies. The leaves remain. Pointedly drinking the sunlight as though still they were in possession of this thing called life.

It's hard to look at the world. Shaky sketches in loose ink. Cutting the paper. Peeling away its white, white skin.

I don't like them, but they foul me with their drug. So shallow. So relentlessly human. They lie to themselves so much they don't realize they're lying to everyone.

The want defiles them. In perfect precision. So ugly that they're beautiful. Lost causes. Second, third chances gone. Ego their only friend.

The world has so much mercy for liars there's none left for the honest.


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