Each day passes the past. The fight hangs-on and gets tougher. Life (fails) to weed-out the riff-raff. It’s weeding me out. What I cannot understand is the acceptance. The pure and unadulterated indifference that existence is set in this track, path, and there is no shoulder. But is there enough connection out there today to wish (my) death. I mean, really wish, (my) (un)death. Or at trip to the pub paid for by advert sponsors or old women who haven’t lost everything. Not some silly hate or loathing, btw. A real wish. Just like the one from the old lady. The perfection (of the imperfectin) of the audience questioned by Pilate. The damage I have done becomes becomes more and more clear. It’s as though I have caused my future to crumble before my eyes. When the crumbling begins you don’t notice it. You only notice the crumble. It goes on for years. Then, one day, you start to look at your self–usually caused by a reflection or a child–and you see the nakedness appearing from behind what has been chipped away. There are those who see this and those who do not. The artist, I fear to admit, is the only one to really grasp this. S/He lays well with friends or foes in an attempt to over this duel.