June 24th, 2002 - 2:27 p.m.

An illness has taken me hostage, but I seem to be in love.

The brain is steeped in a thick tea. Everything is a dim smear. Shrill noises become more jarring. Social interaction seems to last for years, but then are wiped away with one swift gesticulation. Red coral seems to be growing within the eardrums. Hardening the nerve endings. Rapidly racing up across the surface of the skull, skimming the surface of the frontal lobe.

�I want to spend as much time with you as I can. I want to make you sick of me.�

�Hope to catch you later - some where, some time, some how.�

I wish love could be captured in a jar, like a firefly, to lend some light to dreary moments.

N.

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