August 22nd, 2002


silence is sort of a tarnished brassy yellow color

I've been in one of those moods where I think: "I could write about [topic]. But in a thousand years, who's going to care. Hell, in ten minutes, who's going to care?" I know, I know - it's the strangely banal details that breathe life into old diaries like that of Samuel Pepys. But sometimes I just. can't. motivate.

I'll probably try to make a concerted effort to collect and regurgitate my thoughts tomorrow. At the moment I am entirely too itchy and in the throes of my ever-so-delightfully recurring stress-related rash. Time to cover myself in unguent and go to bed.
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