8 March '98
my watch is off, and i am sitting. thoughts of running crossed my mind, but somehow i have convinced myself of peace for the night. my hands are black from handling charcoal all night, and my eyes are stained by too many hands. ALL THESE HANDS! they never stop, i tell you. two days in a row. what time is it? it is time.
i'm losing words here.
my pillowcase was misbehaving, so i traded it with an older one, a happier one. besides, it was the cause of all my grief. though i don't spend a great deal of time in bed, my pillowcase was haunting me through the day, tormenting me with thoughts of.. of.. sleep? no. it had a terrible attitude.
everytime i hang my clothing up in large chunks, they seem to multiply. either that or my hangers disappear.
do you know how much easier this would be if the computer was in my room?
i go to lay down, and i find a tack on my bed. (i also notice my bedsheet's noteable behavior.) then i find sand. sand? it must've been from my journey to the beach with an aquaintance i've never been to the beach with before. including that time. because she refuses to associate with me and the beach. that is why i call her an aquaintance instead of a friend.
do you find it strange that your floor waves to you? part of me now wishes i could sleep and write at the same time. mostly because my mind is fully awake, but my body could use some sleep. and also because it would just be an interesting experience.
amazingly enough, my hand is blacker than it was ten minutes ago 'cause my pen is leaking everywhere. but it's not really my pen, so i can't blame it. or something.
does that mean she's there?
unfortunately. or maybe just the opposite. i don't know anymore. the phone looks so lonely in its corner. i probably look lonely in mine. i tell myself these tears, they aren't mine. not mine.
all the roses are limp, bent to the ground. they are together. they are sad. and dead. duck is dead too. it's a noose. and nun? she'll never die. just keep on fighting. i killed my pillowcase. i killed duck. and i killed the roses. (i tried to kill nun, but she just hit me.) i murdered my surroundings and my friends. i don't feel guilty. i feel.. lacking. inadequate. in my sleep even. it's all because of the phone. and my inability to speak or to.. express myself between the spaces. i cough up six smeared pictures, and i guess she's still there, which makes me sad. and sleepy.