Disintegration is a slow process.

He passes each storefront with dissaproval, arguing with the absent body that walks alongside of him. The drama ensues culminating with the facade critic's humping of the air at random after ficticiously choking himself with his own hands.

Fighting with a demon that isn't really there. This is self-induced tragedy--I need the drama to make myself feel significant. Creation should be all I need but it is not; I need a stage. This is flourescent hell. Flourescent death. This place is death.

Spirituality is a sham. I'm writing out of emotion that is uncalled for. I should practice being stoic. I should practice being a machine. These excercises will bring me no closer to God than will the pen and paper. Accept the loss, bite down on the pain. I am alone in my head; there is no one real there--only the nightmares that I create.

In a basement I create violence. I do it by using a machine; it is depersonalized violence. I create it hoping that it will become the ultimate violence so that I can mass market it to warring nations. I will package the violence in jars with warning labels: "WARNING: MAY CAUSE BELLIGERENCE".

These are not narratives, they are stories from a river that runs through my head. The river is a constant. For the most part the river and I are in agreement, but sometimes I wish I could turn it off and not think at all.

There are phantoms in my mind. There is violence. There is love. There is anger. There is resentment. There is lust. There is no harmony, there is only cacaphony. There is only a symphony of noise, randomly actualizing itself. It is all beyond my control.

Her wet, slippery, mind spit him back out as quickly as he came in. This rejection created disorder. With disorder came malfunction and so now he cannot function because he cannot forget the dejection. He is a broken metaphor.

Mornings are an excercise in survival. How long before I snap or break down in tears? The repitition is murder. The bigotry is revolting. I must be strong.

I am the ego. I am vanity. I am the artist having the gall to think that what I have to express means anything to anyone outside of myself. I am a voice dying in the "mass of quiet desperation". I am throwing pennies into the world's fountain. I am lust. I am desire. I am withdrawn. I want to drag you down with me because I don't want to be alone but that does not stop me from hating you. I am ambivalence. I am disgust. I am meaningless. This is an excercise in futility. This is youth--devouring wisdom. I will have to start over. This is not beat poetry, the beats were defeated from their inception. This is something different, something cyclical. This is a contradiction in terms. This is loneliness, because that is what I am--loneliness. I want to live so that I can create, so that I can knock on your door to let you know that I am alive because I feel meaningless in this isolation. My days are spent in a darkroom, where are your's spent? Do you see humans? All I see are ghosts. Don't pity me, because you are probably one of them. The drinks climbed right on top of me and now there is no escape. I have so much to say, but does it mean anything? Should I go to sleep? Should I fall unconscious? Should I keep going? Does your opinion matter? Can you affect me? Do I care? Do I have control? Am I as powerful as I feel? I have no one to talk to but the voices in my head! I'm not trying to be witty. I am conscious of you . . . to the possibility that you may be reading--that you may be listening, but you can never cure me because I have too much to say. Whether or not what I have to say means anything is irrelevant what is important is that it sees daylight.