Lamentable

Here I write. Like everyone else I should be doing something else, like finishing my proposal, but the last experiment didn't seem to work so well, so here I am writing run-on sentences and loving it.

Why am I lamentable. Am I even using the correct work. No one reads this stuff. Maybe someone surfin might bump into this page every now and then. mostly friends, one or two random strangers in the night. Nothing to see. Move along. But I keep writing. Odd post every now and then.

Here I am, still writing. For who? For who you always write for when you HAVE to write, yourself. So like everyone else, I write for myself. And that is lamentable? No, not really.

What's lamentable is I have nothing to say. All I gotsz jive talk.

Here I am at 38 years of age. I keep returning to this theme. At forty I will have 20 more years until I am considered an old man.

I feel old already. Maybe I was born old, but certainly not mature and certainly NOT like some Spice child from Dune, born with all the knowledge of the order. So what do I do ? ... I know, keep living. keep moving. keep questioning.

i invite you to come along for the next twenty years as I turn into an old man.
there must be people out there, in here, around there that can relate to my spiel... no?

38 and for the most part happily alone. individuals insulated in modern cocoons. connected in a multitude of disconnection.

here's how I look like last month:



slightly disturbed, but not too uprooted.
damn. I am at a lost for words. I'm going home. Wish me luck.

Please, try not to kill anyone today. "WHAT PART OF THOU SHALT NOT KILL DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" great quote from the Onion. Haven't read that rag in ages...

anyways, bis morgen.