the new apocalypse

the book is going mediocrely.

this has been a bad week.
the only person I know who's had more beer than my sister this week is my dad.
he's in bad shape.
goodbye uncle john.
I wish that writing could be a salve tonight,
but even Ben GIbbard fails me.
now having lived through watching someone die
to the point that I couldn't come back.
but why? Aren't we all dying?
I guess I'm just bitter that hoping and praying are futile.

I'm listening to a CD which is a soundtrack not to any film, but to an imaginary life
only in my head and which is very dramatic.

passion, pride, purity, pursuit, power, punching, passing, partying.
beautiful places, average people, ugly places, beautiful people.
perhaps only contrast.

it's my birthday.
and I'm not ready to cut it off with sleep
as though insomnia were my suprehuman power to still the rotation of earth.
grrrrrrr!! I strain to roll back my eyelids.