Friday, May 20, 2005


It's like recording half of an argument. No matter what I tell you or how completely you think you know the story, there will always be more.

Memories from my past fill my eyelids more than I wish. Sometimes, I find myself reliving the bad moments of life for an audience: you, me, and the choir of little boys and old men in my head. Between the six hundred year old dead men, and the lost little boy singing lead, silence is a stranger to me, and I cannot be trusted. Too often, I operate on the stock footage and garbled sounds that make up my once vaunted memory.

I've come to accept levels of participation and enjoyment of life that in a previous age would have been unacceptable. If I knew in 1997 what I know now, bang. No hesitation, but I've said that before. You people think I'm selfish, sad, and downright pathetic, don't you? Guess what? You have no idea.

Everything they say about me is probably true. Listen closely enough, and you'll hear the snapping lid of my latest pill bottle between the letters of the words. I'd tell you more, but I've said too much already. That's ok, though. Few will read, less will understand, but none, and I mean none will make a damn bit of difference. Legions march on all roads that lead to Rome.

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