It's night and the white carpet's innocence downstairs is gone, it looks like paper-printed, long stripes- traces -passing cars- footprints against the clean beauty of the snow, which is getting brown and ugly again- written banalities-mindless productivity.

My screen stares at me, the thoughts are gone as soon as they are typed. I catch thoughtflys like a spider as they come by I digest them as graffiti in my cage. Heavy like beans. What I am writing is for the birds, I am looking into a blind mirror....Hey you there, are you still reading this or did I lose you. I might as well write what I want, nobody is reading this anyhow. Don't worry it's just you and me in some penetrant private dialogue and you store until you're full once I hit command s. This language machine is one of the worst temptations of our century... I am tired language machine, see you tomorrow, hate you again then.