Cold drafts. The window isn't open. I feel them again. They know almost everything and I can't stand to breathe. I didn't want this, but I find myself wanting everything else. But the truth, I know it well. There is no filling me. I am unmoved. The sight of filth reaches within the cracks and taps nerves. A feeling of something else. An escape, whether good or bad. An escape. Then I think about it. About all of it. I think the same thoughts while doing the same things in the same ways, week after week. You excite me. We are virgined in presence at both a great and weak advantage. I don't want to lose this. And because I feel in such a way, after perceiving patterns of past indication, we are destined to fail. It turns my stomach at an equal rate. Looking at it makes me want to die. Looking at what they all have makes me only further cave-in, into this self-destructive implosion. I'm making targets out of passers-by. Out of on-lookers and those offering an atrophied solution to this dead problem. I am slowly wasting away.
Feel my head for spoiling.
2:30 p.m.//02.04.07
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