2001-07-01 - 11:26 a.m.

I'm a simple person. I can record these experiences and learn from them. There is no such thing as predetermination, I am not a Calvinist, and if I insist on believing otherwise it is only to assuage my guilt. To paper over the cracks. Where do I begin?

I throw words away, disgusted and mystified. I'm a robot. All that I can do is nod assent and dissent. A tin heart. My hands are tied. I have no words. I am a parade mannequin. Yellow. Mauve. Celeste. Cyan. These colors mystify and the confusion corroborates my state of helplessness.

Where does anything begin? What am I meant to be doing? Why can I perceive so many alternative realities? Why do none of them satisfy?

So I fall into a milieu. I am a gentleman. I am him. Self-effacing, humourous, understanding, practical, momentary, pristine. I want none of this.

Run Lola, Run

(will I, too, have three endings?)

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