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9:22 p.m. - January 30, 2003
Just go, all of you supposed readers, busybodies, nosy malcontents, voyeurs all
The guilt in denying the truth is so strong it can kill you.

This journal has fallen apart. All I think about is the tired subject of the past and as I clamp down the more it wells up and it is a sulphur creek and not a place to set up camp.

It is quiet here, the wind toying with the wind chimes outside my window; the chime is plaintive, lonely, the poetry I can't write.


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