Perhaps the two most self-destructive things that I do are to stop talking to you and to stop reading. But I still don't feel like communicating... Not just yet.

Last night, as I drove home on Annunciation and turned left onto Magazine, the red light stayed red, while the green light turned on. Should I stay or should I go rendered in color. They flickered for a few moments and then died altogether, worn out with the effort of having to decide on a course of action. On Julia Street, a traffic light was knocked down and continued to turn red and green, lying on it's side in the gutter. Gallantry personified.

Amazing the effect of a pair of pink Wellington boots has on the mind during a rainstorm.

Fast changes are coming. I am restless and apathetic, rootless and weighed down at the same time.

Every night when I drive home at around 11:30, there is a slightly built man in shorts and a t-shirt standing on the corner of Jefferson and Magazine, talking on the pay phone. Every night. I wonder, does he always talk to the same person?

Justin has been selected to fall off a two storey building after fighting Porthos. He plummets headfirst and then twists to land on his back. I imagine him landing shaped like a starfish with a gentle 'poof' and a small cloud of dust, like Wile E. Coyote.

This is not much of an entry, but at least you know I'm here.