all the stockings were hung with care

2003-12-25, 1:18 p.m.

things are set in pairs, neatly organized on the wall, just enough for me to see a pattern. something drains away speech, rhythm, rhymn, when i am thinking, its like building a tower of legos that is palced on lava. then, once again, a little light makes its way into the prose, and that comes as the vision of a streetside peddler, ranting and raving about his connections, and their conspiracies (could he be cursed with moral dyslexia?)

i dont know, really, seems to me there is some point when people speak; an innate conviction that each person holds. where is mine hiding, could i be the reincarnation of John Foster Kane? at some points, i couldnt help but replaces his name with mine, just so that people could finally peg me against teh wall, confronting me and interrogating me. oh, it may sound bad, depressing, senial, but i think how good it might feel to be taken away by the waves of another persons vision; to be rooted with concepts that i dont yet understand