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03/25/2005 07:43 a.m.
I felt the urge to write in this little white box tonight. But it seems I have nothing to say.

I own my own home at the age of 30. Every room is filled with objects of mine. But it seems my life is empty.

My mind gets all cluttered with children waiting to spew themselves forth. But it seems I am always straining to pen them.

I love to cook. And I am good at it. But it seems I don't have anyone to cook for.

And loving someone. Spending the rest of my life with someone. The good and the bad of being together is a desire of mine. But it seems I have lost all desire for the future.

I dream an empty dream. Of a life I am not meant to live. But it seems my dreams are spent and all I have left is two quarters to make a call.

With no one on the other end to answer.
I am currently Melancholy
I am listening to the absence of everything.