7:48 p.m. - March 24, 2003
It felt good to focus though there was a challenge; one of the people involved peripherally was a dead ringer for Spec, right down to the eyes. I mean dead ringer and my heart pounded; I looked at him too often, stealing glimpses, trying to tell myself I was simply cataloguing similarities.
I am not feeling sad, sorry, fatalistic, hopeless; I don't know where to look, where to walk, how to breathe.
When will I ever make sense?
Cocooning - er, I meant to say relaxing - listening to music, burning CDs. Classical, lachrymalia, maybe an acoustic catch-all.
I put far too much thought into CDs.
On the train ride home I thought about REM's "Nightswimming" and the line about two moons and began putting together a poem; I wrote it down when I sat in my car. It irritates me that when I cannot articulate lucidly the urge goes on a rampage and it's poetry that issues like an aneurysm, quick and fleeting, sometimes with lasting results, sometimes not.
I want to have a better grasp on things.