2001-06-18 - 6:56 p.m.

Evil. Peril. Avoidance. Would that life was a triangle. I am no longer able to propose. I am bent forwards, my head brushing the monitor. I pray for a miracle.

Something new. Something blue. I do not want to make sense. I do not want to be afraid. No mirrors, no mirrors.

I am not guilty of romanticism. A roman. A novel. I want to begin a story. I need to begin to communicate, because inside myself I am bereft of an anchor.

Where is the shame in admitting weakness? I owe debts to the past. I am the writer's writer's reader (with apologies to David Lodge).

Easily impressed. Take a fly. I flaunt the flights of fancy. A fault, for I am a flamingo.

troilus

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