I've been thinking. After watching What Is Beauty? on the BBC it's finally dawned on me the pointlessness of art and the actual beauty of real life. A lot of the time I prefer art to life, but art fails completely when it comes to trying to create life. We can't write people because we are people. So then art only succeeds when we're trying to get away from life, but can't truly achieve that either. We are us. We are here. We are all I and no matter what we're reading or what we're staring at that never changes.

Hands of the Priestess (Part One)

I've been meaning to write here for a while. Now I am here but I don't really have anything to say. I suppose today I should apply for more jobs because it looks like we'll lose our nightshift tomorrow. I want to do lots of press ups and sit ups and listen to music loud. I want to finish reading Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. I want to edit my poem. I want to sit next to my bookcase and gaze up at the top shelf which is full of poetry. I have a dissertation idea: Nabokov, Fowles and Dahl. Odd. I want to read some Walt Whitman. I feel like going Christmas shopping because I have given myself some money to play with. This year I have it all. There is no confusion in my family. No ambiguity over whether to buy for certain people. Mainly because we despise them for certain and they completely feel the same. I want to buy a present for little Mary. I have a beautiful girlfriend to buy for. I have people who aren't greedy.