Saturday, Sept. 07, 2002 - 9:10 p.m.

Absent thee from felicity for a while; absent thee from mirth - Rome is burning. And with it immolates my strength - no longer remaining cryptic, I collapse into a multitude of truths.

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My imagination saps the mystique from her. A mouth opens, and squeaks, and she becomes naked to my eyes. Her face is the tool of my damnation, causing me to abscond in shame. This oblong sacred object that crows its dissatisfaction before it exits in search of another meal. What have you taken besides that precious linen, my identity? I rise now, in post-diluvian bliss, weak. New sensations are etched with pricks. My mouth arches to speak, but none comes out but for air. Blood rushes quickly to these fingers. The smear of that name, troilus, the second son, fool of fools. With blood smeared upon his face, and not the blood of Banquo.

I am the murtherer of my own dreams.

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All cracked up without a Zelda. Neither a flourish to end nor the memory of a raucous beginning. All occasions do inform against me - I stand out my hand to recognise some earth or a space to plant down new horizons. But it is all eradicated methodically. Nota bene, nota bene. Errato corrige. I do not learn from these mistakes, so I relearn the pain.

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Noli mi tangere, car Caesaris sum. I construct this solipsism and build my solitude, and once inside this glass house have difficulty breathing!

A new morning would be sanctifying.

troilus

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