網誌
2006年12月5日 下午6點19分51秒What has become of me . . .
I write constantly with depressed or ecstatic bends. Words flit and flutter from me in some aesthetic order and I maintain my ignorance that they all truly mean something.
Unfortunately they do not. I expect them to instill in another some emotion, when in me I find nothing stirring. I desire a mass moving in a simultaneous direction and am solitary. Struggling to stay on a surface that is no longer my survival but my terror. Where I stopped was where I found futility, I found myself straining to get back where I used to be. The massive plain ahead of me, pre-requisite to continuity of my once former splendor, is over-shadowing anything I ever did come to be thus far.
However much I try the result is still the same, lofty goals without the means to execute. Oh, well. . .not like it matters, no one expected great things from my minor frame. I am just a man, without home, without culture, without future, only the putred stench of the carcass of pride left to me.
I have broken momentum and lost it all to some latent void. Reclaiming this once glorious crown would be a pathetic attempt at ressurection. I slip into what made me. . .
I was forged in hate and I will die with it on my breath.