Lack of time
There seems to be something missing... a certain lack of purpose, some drive to give sense - not at all meaning- to this feel of the world. But is it really the world i'm now feeling?, is there really anything i can say about something that is not my scattered glass window? maybe it is no more than a pathological need for attention, an escape from my self imposed negligence... maybe it's just comforting to find that the idea of death drives my attention to the rounded inked scar below my waist. I wonder what i would think of the writter of this binary coded journal if i was to be in a different situation... probably pathetism swarms these little symbols, drowns any possible sense that of this
could be made. It is now time to turn my head an look at my naked contiousnessss in the mirror, it is time to wonder if i believe that i am doing anything at all to remedy the lack of passion that living in this inertial mode
has given me.