dear not dreaming yet diary,
laying in bed makes me realize- i am prolly still alive. because i am awake. which is in itself torture. because i don't want to be awake. but now my mind is lurking down the empty halls where nobody else wants to go- and i am the only one left in there- the only one left to watch the show. it fascinates me to wonder why i do this to myself- pull out the same old book off the dusty shelf. i read that bitch over and over again- page after crumby page- knowing what the outcome will be- it doesn't change with age. i wrote that book i keep reading- that is the kicker of it all- sometimes i play shuffleboard down the empty halls. everytime i read it- i want to change a line- but it's already printed- to late to change my mind. sometime maybe i could write a new book- a happy book this time- one with less dust and dirt on it- and no changes of any kind. maybe someday we will sit together on a hillside somewhere and both have laptops and begin writing there. you're book will be filled with much more life experience than mine- for you make more sense with your fancy complete edjumacated sentences and all that terrific shit. my book will be filled with more nonsense drivel like you see here. but at least i will have something else to read when you're not there.
laying in bed makes me realize- i am prolly still alive. because i am awake. which is in itself torture. because i don't want to be awake. but now my mind is lurking down the empty halls where nobody else wants to go- and i am the only one left in there- the only one left to watch the show. it fascinates me to wonder why i do this to myself- pull out the same old book off the dusty shelf. i read that bitch over and over again- page after crumby page- knowing what the outcome will be- it doesn't change with age. i wrote that book i keep reading- that is the kicker of it all- sometimes i play shuffleboard down the empty halls. everytime i read it- i want to change a line- but it's already printed- to late to change my mind. sometime maybe i could write a new book- a happy book this time- one with less dust and dirt on it- and no changes of any kind. maybe someday we will sit together on a hillside somewhere and both have laptops and begin writing there. you're book will be filled with much more life experience than mine- for you make more sense with your fancy complete edjumacated sentences and all that terrific shit. my book will be filled with more nonsense drivel like you see here. but at least i will have something else to read when you're not there.
