The refuge of the insane, or the utterly despondent, the written word. Tonight, I hope I shall write out all I feel on this kind, yet faceless computer screen. In between what I have been , and where I shall be, there lies the present. They say that the past is comfortable, the future, insecure, But the present is a bit of a Bastard.I see her sometimes, stil, coming at me from thacross the cast empty moonlit beach, with the seawaves caressing her feet in a strangely aqueising sort of way... Like the godess that she is. Her long floral skirt conceals much, and yet seems to augmen he contours of her body in a way that reminds one of Venus-De Milo. She waves at me, from across the shore.... and then suddenly, a mist draws upon us... Her silent shriek echoin throug the night. As I am left in the darkness, with only the lilting cadence of the intonations that the waves make as they splash against the water.
The mist clears, and there is no one... all feelings of devotion turn to uetter horror, as her mangled body lies on the shore. Like some broken branch of a now dead tree, I see her face turned towards me, its visage a mask of utter horror. What happned in that ist, I shall never know, for the strange quality of mists is that they conceal more than they reveal. Maybe she was never there in the first place,just a figment of my shattered imagination,The seashre withers away into a glass shell,
Ans I am left banging against the wall, my hands restricted by the straitjacket, screaming away into the dark recesses of m slitary confinement.