March 10, 2002
And who might you be?

How can one be so moody loose? One minute I’m up, and then I’m quickly down. Don’t look in the mirror, Mr. Mess! Push the outsiders away! I’ve been sentenced to live with myself—the moody, loose, deaf, blind, grumpy, old man. Nobody understands the evil that lurks below the prints of my finger tips. Who is he? Why do I wish to know? What is he? Why the hell do I care? Anger waits for its cue to hit the stage—dressed in war torn shadowed tears, his grin is harnessed to look genuine, only to realize his teeth are replicas of death.

To change the subject—
to tell one’s self to seize the mood.
To belt down the negative—
believing such carelessness is foolish.
To change the mood—
to invite the actor.
To cast shadows onto the wooden floor—
making sure I can’t see the audience.
To change the emptiness—
to laugh out loud for several minutes.
To suddenly go silent—
a fork in the path with no road sign.