June 9th, 2002 - 2:41 a.m.

Just fucken shoot me now.

Smoking. Sauntering down a busy city street. Crying. Ah, the evening built on a foundation of nicotine induced euphoria. Polishes the sharp edges dull.

Feel as if am walking on a fragile platform, constructed of bamboo skewers, seven inches in length. An odd lattice, eerily creaking, glaringly aware of the structural instability. Politik! Formed of course on basis of secrecy and a lack of communication. Makes one nauseated. Stressed. Would much rather be chastised and berated, or be simply told things without ceremony and intervening parties. Then at least one may have ground upon which to build an appropriate response. But instead, feel as if all is horribly wrong. Terribly, disgustingly, wrong.

�I will never be what you need, cannot help it at all.�

Makes one want to go into hiding. Hermithood. Dig a deep hole in the ground. Nestle in, like a spider in its silken home. I will not leave. You cannot make me.

I just want to pick up the telephone, and pour into it all my sorrow. But that just feels too irresponsible. And who would I call?

N.

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