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There's a difference between solitude and aloneness.It doesn't make any sense, I know. That's because (and I hate to belabor the point) I'm not awake yet. No little filter in my brain telling me to stop what I'm doing and think about it. There should be. It isn't _that_ early. But there isn't It's easier that way, I think.I was sitting down. That much is easy. Less easy is the thought that my sitting down was irrelevant. My presence was irrelevant. Unnecessary. Unwanted. No wild, passionate striving. NO tooth decay. (Well, probably tooth decay.) Artichokes on the barbie and all that rot. Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his uncombed hair, his generally disreputable appearance, he's probably one o' them nazi types. Cazn't trust them for a moment. A moment is all it takes. Then -zip- your gullet's slit, and you wouldn't want that sonny, now would you. Would you? WOULD YOU? There's a place. In this place, there's a thing. On this thing, there's a whatzits. On this whatzits, there's this guy. This guy on this whatzits on this thing in this place in a larger place in a larger place still all circling, circling around this guy. Persuade yourself that this is important. Is it easier if this guy is you? Naturally. Naturally. ALl you care about, in the end, is you. Your philanthropy makes you feel better. Your impatience is selfserving, your vast piles and piles of gold help you out remarkably. I'd recommend not changing. Don't eat dry rice. It's nasty. My goal, here, is to fill a page. I'm learning the problem with this technique, which seems to be that I can't seem to focus on a story or anything, but devote myself to incoherent rambling. There's nothing wrong with a good bout of incoherent rambling, I suppose, but it makes no difference in the end, anyway. I'd still like to produce Pieces Of Worth, and this isn't one of them, and has no intention of becoming one. Kiss the ground I walk on, slave! Well? Whatchu waitin' for, Willis?
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