April 8th, 2002 - 9:05 p.m.

Perhaps it would be best if things were different.

What people must first realize is that life shall never resemble the fluidity and general ease depicted in novels. There is no easy flow of time, it drags on, overgrown nails tip tapping, etching the surface of the skin.

There is no real elegance to life. No gracefulness. It is a joke, perpetuated by a desire to step above the fact that we when we cry, we become puffy and ugly, we are all secretly afraid of things that will never be admitted, and we are all embarrassed that we missed that food particle on our teeth when talking to another person. �You are made of the same decaying matter that surrounds you.�

I am not in a jovial mood.

We all trip and fall, at some point in time. We are all fallible. We are all feeble. Fragile. Flimsy replicas of something else. We will all die. And there will come a day in which not a single soul knows that we once existed.

Romance is a false notion with a short life span; existing only for short moments within the human mind.

So really, with this in mind: what is a secret? This waiting for perfection? What are those things you hold so dear and close to you? Can you live without artifice and circumstance?

I need a new pair of black kid leather gloves, cashmere lined, quarter length, size 6 1/2.

n.

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