August 11th, 2002 - 2:08 p.m.

Once again, this is no real cause for complaint.

It pours like a flood; torrents of water. A night for inebriation. A night for reckless sexual encounters with strangers. A night to forget. A night to be forgotten.

This outrageous sense of abandonment consumes all processes of thought. All is illogic, ill conceived, illegitimate; insignificant. How does one begin to lose oneself?

However, no. Once again. Where there ought to be foul murder and blood. Where there ought to be upheaval and violent destruction. Where there ought to be malaise and strife. There are bon mots, and jovial exchanges.

N.

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