12.June.2003

it started raining the second i hit 'enter'

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which bore a significance for a mere twelve seconds

I have a tendency to speak to my diary like it's a fictitious crony, wont to be patient, and fit to be tied. It disturbs me the English language is now infused with horrifically mundane metaphors that are abused on hourly bases. See above for an example.

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I have a request for you. Yes, you. You at your work desk, you at your home desk, you sitting on a beach with a Compaq laptop on wireless internet because this is the Summer, and this is the only way you should spend your Summer, if it were consistently up to me:

Write for me; this is impulsive writing, and e-mail aforementioned impulsive writing to me. E-mail is the bedroom to the living room of the guestbook. It's Thursday morning. Have your coffee or your tea or your requisite main-line shot of Ellis-inspired speed-balls, and write for me. Entwine your political verbs with your religious nouns and send it to me. Become Plato or Pratt or a prat. Do it with ease, do it with style, do it out of sheer boredom and perpetual devotion. Tell me if you want me to share snippets of it here; tell me to keep it nestled in the inbox, or tell me I'm full of the proverbial shit.

Sometimes, I do not desire this space belonging solely to me.

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time & machine