July 14th, 2002 - 1:57 a.m.

If the necessary words could be conceived, I would apologize.

Mental illness is a funny thing. At least one person is rolling in the aisles with laughter.

On the edge. The precipice. Can feel the centre of gravity rolling. Muscles twitching with the intensity of the caffeine addicted.

Intense clarity. All is good. All is fine. All is over thought. Over processed. And down we dip. Over we go.

Dripping torment like the hem of an unfortunate pair of pants after contact with a post rain storm puddle.

And all that can be done is to bury oneself in perceived insult. Magnified pain. Take a pin prick on the tip of the baby finger, and pretend it is the sabre that murdered all of beauty.

Fragile. So.

Can only feel irresponsible. Immature. Inconsiderate. Ill conceived.

Excuse me while I take myself out back and give myself a beating.

N.

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