Today. Today. Walk of the Stones.
<< 8:56 p.m. - Monday, Jan. 26, 2004 >>
Triplets of red. I hate that I can�t do anything about it. Yes, we are mortal. Don�t doubt that. The moment, this present tense movement feels prerecorded and murky. Cannot grasp. Cannot fathom. There is a shadow of a man made from the telephone poles and his arm goes down to his knee. Nighttime makes illusions out of the shadows, and I can�t help but to turn and let my eyes get glassy in worry. See, I lost it again.

This is a faulty transmission today, sorry. Haha. I�ve got my permanent laugh back on. The moon is smiling a bone white crescent.