Since September last year I have found it increasingly difficult to write. I have nothing to say and I have no way to say it.

Michael says many nice things, and I appreciate it.

However, there is no drive. No motivation, no will, no zeal.

I want to sleep forever, and well. No dreams.

I live downstairs now, in the TV room, and the bed here makes me do nothing but dream. I can't get any rest. Just dreams, none stop, waking up exhausted from something that is never remembered.

Earlier this evening I went out with friends. Started good. Descended into I have no drive.

They will make me?

89 was deeply textured. Too many layers. And you would only get most of them if you were me. Otherwise, because you aren't, you would not understand.

I think about things that happened back in November of 2000. I think about things that happened in May 2001. I have regrets.

Hardware and software are falling apart.

I did not hire a helicopter; t'was nought but jest.

Spin baby, spin.

I will become them.

Shan't install, for some reason. Fuck it right in the ear.

Too tired.

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Written over a year ago.



Nothing has changed.

People, especially women, frighten me.

I cannot speak.



Vietnam? My new shoes were made there.

I am twenty.