February 10, 2003


Words in the room died long ago, everyone had their say and I listened attentively, nodded my head in agreement, uttered the usual compassionate two bits. The band is packing up, the bar tender is cleaning up, ash from the last cigarette in the packet gently drops into the tray. It is time to go home, it is time to gather the pretty words in loose change into my wallet to be used on one of them days. It is time to go home and listen to words that no one wants to hear.

Was trying to come up with reasons why I live a few days back and the best ones I could come up with were a few blood-drenched fragile strings and this is funny -- the landlady. Have to pay her every month, you see. I am a virtual conduit between her and the bank and she is my prime motivation for existing. Other than that there is not much, there is nothing much that would miss me. Yeah, I know no one is missed that much, life goes on and yadayada. Can't really score on that point. My mistake, please keep the point to yourself dear quiz master.

Do not know why, but this feeling has been haunting me of late that I am running short on time. No, I do not suffer from any deadly disease or something, it is just the feeling of having reached the end of the line. Somehow everything has fallen into yet another set pattern and I am driven more and more into the arms of quiet, something has to give. I really do not know.

Can't understand why am I writing this even. Enough.