Sitting here wasting time. So much time to give, nothing seems worth filling it. Wishing I had someone to waste it with. Inspiration patchy. Ideas are there, but refuse to be expressed. A cloud of faeries hovering over my head - darting out of sight when ever focus is attempted. Inside I feel strangely tranquil - is it a Sunday thing? I seem to remember last Sunday being a day of calm. Sunday is a day of loneliness. Saturday is not quite as bad - at least I could go shopping and lose myself in a crowd - on Sunday there are not as many shops open. I don't really have anything I want to buy anyway - would end up buying films that I will watch only once. Books I will never read. CDs I will only listen to once in a blue moon. All along the crooked way. Had a stupid smirk on my face while I was taking the weekly picture - the one shown is actually the 4th one taken - I didn't like the other 3. This is supposed to be a warts-n-all expression of my existence, yet I get self conscious over the picture. Hypocrite.
Sunday, 7 November 1999
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