The computer is sitting in the dining room area, off to the left. It is a big room, so a chinese screen has been set up as a divider. The paper on the screen is soft, and thin, but you can tell by the same token that it is strong. The over head light from the fan hits the opposit mirror ever-so-gently and reflects off of the screen making the shadows of the paper stronger, and darker, and making the paper itself seem almost omniscent. It reaches up, higher than I am tall, and the oak wood of the frame clashes softly, yet abruptly against the textured ceiling. The ceiling has patterns in it, strange patterns, that change depending on your angle. I tilt my head all the way back in the computer chair, and watch the fan blades spin 'round & 'round, and then I focus my eyes on the patterns in the ceiling, and they change, and move, and grow as if they are the floor in the bar in Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas. I spend a great deal of my time looking at the ceiling. This ceiling, the ceiling in my room, and the ceiling in whatever coffee shop I am spending the hour filling my books with my mindless perambulations.

Don't want your hand this time
I'll save myself
Maybe I'll wake up for once
Not tormented daily
Defeated By You
Just when I think I hit the bottom
I'm dying again~Evanessence

"What is your obsession with outlets? Your obsessed with outlets. Why?" If I don't express, I feel like I am going to implode. I get suicidal if I don't express. "You're nuts" he tells me. Yeah, I'm nuts. I don't expect anybody to understand. I don't expect anybody to care. Nobody is supposed to care about my blog, and care about my writings. Just me. I'm not doing them for anybody else. I do it because I feel compelled. It's a feeling deep inside me. If that makes any sense...