August 20th, 2002 - 5:31 p.m.

Dread, and greeness.

Dread the dailyness of existence. The sleeping. The dreaming. The waking up. The ceremonial cleansing of the body. The heralding of.

The sustenance. The twinge in the spine. The first cig. The thirsty gulping of water. The general maintenance of homeostasis.

Requires the farce of a schedule. Requires the plan of action.

�I used to think.�

Dread routine simplicity. Dread the minor details.

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Over reaction. Over sensitivity. Overt drama.

The overture of demolition. A reconstruction shall have to be staged to a new tune. A restoration.

Time and distance are inept architects. Circumstance adorns the cornices; impish in their stare.

And all is easily annihilated with one swift gesture. And ill chosen words. Spat out.

Patience is a deadly virtue. Wrath is a deadlier vice. But is not virtue itself, within itself, a vice?

Or is this line of contaminated cleverness, of jaded jabs at clich�dness, merely another frail poke at the corpse of felled animosity?

I am off topic.

N.

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