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Journal - 21/10/01
My mind is the catalyst of my depression, allowing my soul to realize the extent of the oil that suffocates all life in this era.
Roughly sanded wood under my fingers feels like skin being sloughed off; the fingernails of a god I cannot see and hate exactly as much as I love clawing the epidermis of evil from my essence.
Cold is the bitterness of a thousand tiny knives of cool steel pressed against my flesh as they prepare to withdraw penance for my mistakes from my warm flesh.
The sound of a falling leaf is the dull drum of my finger against metal as I question, as I think, as I realize, as I hate.
Glowing with disapproval for my preference of the darkness that hides many scars and blemishes, light is a fiery napalm exploding into the retina of my soul.
A smooth surface is the greasy covering of those who cannot identify with the world or accept it -- hiding from the earth's spin with shells of hate.
Rain is the pattering thought of moments belonging to someone's existence dripping from a life span.