Monday 27 September 1999

Overs immers humiock crimicrui pes.

meta-date: Mon Sep 27 07:26:00 1999

Gravestone de-faced by idiots. Or Hindus. Mirror image of a Nazi swastika. Doctor again. Double espresso burns my throat on the way down. I'm sure there are better pleasure/pain partnerships, but this is the best I will experience. I wish this cold would hurry up and go. Throat still sore, head still aches. My life stretches out in front of me - an ocean of mediocrity with an occaisional island of pain. Rare enjoyment - such as the track day on friday - not so rare drunkeness, anaesthetic. Void. The mask slips while writing. Who is the real me. If the mask is worn for too long does it become reality. Where do I belong? Do I belong anywhere? It doesn't feel like it. Chris asked me whether this was real or not last week - the mask obviously works - he couldn't see through it at any rate. Nothing matters. I cannot change - the inertial force of apathy is far greater than any force of will that I can muster. This is the way I am until an external force changes me. This is the way I am.