I posted my last entry nearly a year ago. Not too much has happened since. I'm about to rush off get a hair-cut and then possibly work. Possibly. I'll stand there, leaning on the Arby's counter for a few hours. There will be a few broken moments of rush. I'll say things to my co-workers. They may or may not notice.

I will type up the third chapter of my "novel". Who isn't trying to write a book these days though? It's becoming quite the trendy thing to do with your spare time. I have a CD that I should finish. SOOOO CLOSE. I say that over and over again and never really get any closer to an actual finished product. I could create music all day. I create lyrics once every four years. I can't finish anything I start. I have to finish something soon or everything will remain unfinished.

I feel like such a lazy bastard this summer. I'm actually doing more this summer than I have any other. But I still feel lazy.

Yes, my sentences are short and chopy. Let's call my artistic "style" rather than calling it a flaw. It's suppose to create an effect. It's not working, I can tell.

But still. I keep on. Doing it. Like it's getting me somewhere rather than nowhere.

I'm going to post the first 2 chapters that I've finished. They will probably have spelling errors. That was never my strongpoint. It will be something rather than nothing though.

I need something to do with my hands. I need to stop listening to Portishead as often as I have these past 2 days. It's making me extremely blank (in a depressing kind of way). That's minimalist music for you. I can't get enough.

I don't really make music. I loop noises and add synths to them. Maybe a guitar here and there. It doesn't matter. It's "artistic". It's trying to make a point. I don't know what that point is.

Isn't that what post-modernism is all about though? There is NO point. It's what it is. That's what I would like it to be. Without morals. Without reason. Without any sort of romantic coincidence. That's why it's post-MODERN. There are no coincidences. It's all just taken at face value. And it should. Coincidences don't happen in real life. Only in romantic fiction. Hawthorne would not approve, I'm sure. Neither would Emerson, but he was a smelly hippy.

I think we can all move on.

We are not connected. There is no collective conciousness.

I think I can move on at least.

I'm going to go change my appearence. Then go to work.

Bye then...