Transcribed from a journal (October 30th, 2004)

WORK. SCHOOL. HOME. SCHOOL. HOME. WORK. SCHOOL. WORK. HOME. The doldrums get me down, naturally. I hear it doesn't much change in this life. Though I'm not special in the global sense, I hope to change this constant state of boredom into true rollicking revelry. Creativity is practically lost to this age, for we must rely on the innovation of tradition for anything close to originality. Survival first, then expression. Poetry is a state of mind, not a string of well-placed mechanical devices. So, what the fuck is it all for? Are we all trying to be remembered? Apparently. So our existence has EVERYTHING to do with voyeurism and high-visibility. How very sad it is to me; I'm luck to be happy without all that shit for the moment.