Sigh.

When you're less than zero, when the immeasurable amount of mistakes, wrong turns, mischance, dead ends, stupid decisions, heart breaks and let downs which had accumulated over a long, frustrating year pile up so high that you cannot even see the summit, when you're less than zero the only way is up and out, right? I surely hope so, because for the first time in my hip, suave, sinister, two-time dealing, insidious, deviant existence I am out of fucking ideas. There are no more cards up the old sleeves.

I sit quietly in someones else's house listening to a dog of mammoth proportions breath and snuffle, my umpteenth cigarette smoldering in an over-filled ashtray, and I wonder - what the fuck am I going to do? More importantly, I guess, what the fuck is it that I want?

That is the main question, perhaps. I have a vague idea of what I am attempting to do in the immediate future. But, is it what I want? I have been offered a house - which I don't want. I have been offered new friends - who I care little of. The scheme of things, my life's direction - the big kahuna - crashed and burned down the same insidious rabbit hole - coming to the same conclusion which has plagued me for over a decade: I want nothing. Nothing. In the most raw, base, simplest form of the word. I wish to speak to no one. To see no one.To interact with no one. To simply lay in my apartment on whatever ratty bed I acquire and live and re-live my past experiences and thoughts in my slowly disintegrating mind. My body has begun to deteriorate at a rapid state and I have become ashamed, not wanting anyone to witness this crumbling of the self.

Perhaps it is time to shut the soft machine down. It sure in hell isn't producing anything. Nothing.