Who am I writing to? I'm writing to no one. No one will read this except me. So I'm writing to myself. To listen to myself in my mind's ear. So it is out of Narcisism that I'm writing. I'm looking into the cybertronic mirror. So bored so boring. Making faces into nothing. Then letting them take my face as though it's a box of cereal on a supermarket shelf. You can't take my face anymore. No more photography, no more cinema. No more tape recording or sound engineering. No more media orgy. I can't face myself. I can't confront my own direction. I am not happy with my body. I am unsuccessful... a failure. I am in an isolation chamber. With all my noiseless, clueless patience. I feel it slipping away. I see the colors of alienation. The blues and greens of letting it go. Gone are the reds and yellows of ecstacy. Now only the blues and the greens fill an empty hole. The dirt is packed tidy all around the negative space. I am walking in the field of the ether. Trying to find the tree of life. When I trip and fall into this hole. It holds me captive for three weeks. Then it lets me go. But I never understood what it was doing. Or who dug it in the first place. I am sorry, but when I left I was lonely. It had grown dark outside. The leaves on the trees were all dead and brown. The life had been choked. Now my seraphim denounce their allegence. They no longer call anyone master. And I'm a king with no subjects, a messiah with no disciples. My longing is for the productive form of suffering. To feel something, to have a genuine sensation. Not to feel this nothing that I'm feeling right now. Maybe I lost my mind drinking. Too many dreams and the past gets unsteady. I can see the memories but not remember them. Like photographs of a party where you got black-out drunk. That's been my whole life until now. I can picture the happy moments, the ecstatic moments, the holy moments. I just can't relive them, so I'm constantly redefining myself with new experiences in the quest for exciting and interesting sensations. The journey makes me weary, but I think it's worth traveling. This week will be my lost week. I hope to not remember anything, and I will emerge from it a new person. I will strip off the old fantasy and adorn myself with the new. Ahh this succubus and these sorcerers. These forces outside of me that I feel so deeply on the inside. Why do I allow them to possess me? The entrap me with the illusion of love. But it is only a different kind of relationship and not the trueness of agape love: the godly love, the love of god, godgiven love, god is love. Everyone around must become everyone inside. Crawl deep into this cave with me and then we will hold hands and pray. Everyone crawl in and don't be afraid of being too crowded.