Monday, July 6


I count the years. Meaningless. Blank pages in a forgotten book. But I count the years.

I think about walking. I think about the City, winking at me in the dark. I think about the sneers of the winding roads; the muted mockings of the shadows; the awful stare of the yellow lights. I wonder which I really fear - the anonymity of the shadows, or the judgement of the light.

I think about fiction. I think about reality. I try to find the lines between. But they're not lines like those between the roads of the city. They're hidden, blurred, indescreet - like the lines between the sea and sky in the blackness before dawn.

I think about talking. I play with words, conjour them as I swirl the ice of my whiskey. I shape words as ice clinks, and the whiskey becomes my voice. But the words are like the ice: clear, and drowning. My thoughts are like the ice; melting.

I want something to break, to bend. I test the wounds, prod and pry. I search myself for openings, answers, questions... anything that will rise above the numbness. I search the whiskey for myself, and cower at the reflection dancing in the surface.

I need a story. I need a fresh case. I need fresh blood.

I count the years. Could now be time?