(no subject)
Mary is an eccentric woman who sweeps the steps of the chapel and wears a variety of odball wooly hats. She crossed the road on her way to late shopping, carrying her bag filled with other bags, her wooly hat on prominent display. At the bus stop, you will find the old alcoholics right on schedule. The distinguished man who runs the bar across the street is balding, and all he does is sit chatting to old men beneath a television supported on a pile of books next to a speaker pouting out commercial radio or Scottish offensive joke records.
And here I am reading old journals. I was tuned into the world like a subway to a grid. There seemed to be a lot more going on. Each room was a concentrated area of activity. Even as I take my pencil for a walk, the images of that are clear and bright. Something seems to have taken a pounding. Even as my eyes scroll over the lines of hurt and anguish, there was something a little more optimistic about then, although the downward slide was evident. I'll shovel all of this into the hands of the humanity stricken computer and never let it see the light of day again.
I suppose it feels as if time isn't moving on as it should. It's difficult to take advantage of a voyage in bad weather. It's a desolate place to behold, not another vessel of any strength for miles. People are strange and not worthy of new journal entries. However, no one expresses themselves anymore. Ours was the last great whine. Technology has sucked the life out of our expressions, our thoughts and our ways of interaction.
But you can get lost in these old journals. It's easy to get lost in these old journals. There is a goldmine underneath the blank calendar pages, and all mining ventures eventually lead to destruction.