My Favorite Songs Change Every Year.

My "heart". Does That Pitiful Organ Still Represent Anything? It Lies Motionless In My Chest, Pumping No Blood, Serving No Purpose, And Yet My Feelings Still Seem To Originate Inside Its Cold Walls. My Muted Sadness, My Vague Longing, My Rare Flickers Of Joy. They Pool In The Center Of My Chest And Seep Out Of There, Diluted And Faint, But Real.

I Want Life And In All Its Stupid Sticky Rawness.

I'm Not A General Or A Colonel Or A Builder Of Cities. I'm Just A Corpse Who Wants Not To Be.

Once Again The Absurdity Of My Inner Thoughts Overwhelms Me, And I Want To Crawl Out Of My Skin, Escape My Ugly, Awkward Flesh And Be A Skeleton, Naked And Anonymous.

It's Rare That I Read More Than Two Or Three Books By Any One Author, Usually Only One.