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"In today's information age, work for the nation's 340,000 writers and editors abounds. And, whether to fulfill old dreams or to satisfy practical needs, many Americans are moving into editorial roles... The outlook for writers is good. The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) predicts that by 2008, editorial opportunities will have increased 21 to 35 percent over 1998, assuming moderate economic growth. Many of the available jobs will be in high-technology and electronics fields and in journalistic outlets in small markets..." read more...
Friday, December 20, 2002
Monday, December 16, 2002
Running Out of Time
Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 12/16/02 9:23:35 PM
Criteria:
Charles approached the security detail that surrounds Steve Richardson. "Excuse me, Mr. Richardson," he began. "I was wondering whether you had any comments about the trial or the verdict or the sentence the judge handed down."
"No comment," Steve replied. His eyes looked hollow and red, as though he'd been crying considerably. Well, he had been crying. I mean who wouldn't have felt the heartstrings. What pain he must be feeling right now.
Then, all of a sudden, Steve pulled a gun from one of his captors and broke free. He headed toward a news van. Charles recognized his cameraman as the driver and dashed off toward the van. Steve hopped in the passenger side and aiming the gun, he ordered, "Drive." The cameraman began to drive. Charles had just enough time to hop in the back with the assistant manager who'd taken over for the cameraman, since Dave, the cameraman, had been feeling nausea all morning.
At first Steve objected to the last-minute passengers, but then, he figured that having the company would work out better. He could at least have someone to talk to, and he could get access to the audience. The public needed to know his story, his struggle. He felt motivated, though now as a fugitive, to make sure the world knew why he was running. And having some hostages for the ride meant that he could bargain.
Charles called out to Steve from the rear of the news van, "What are you doing? Are you nuts? Why are you hijacking our news van?"
"No answers. Not yet," Steve replied. "When the time comes, I want it to be live on TV."
He heard sirens approaching the van. "Don't slow down. Drive. Fast," he ordered Dave, the cameraman, who was driving, but feeling a bit more queasy due to the added stress.
Steve let out a big sigh. He'd never hijacked a van before. He'd never broken the law like this. If he were caught, he'd wind up in bigger trouble than what he wound up in court for. He looked up in the sky. Nope. No choppers. Not yet anyway.
Charles couldn't believe it either. He'd only joined the newstaff a few months ago, mainly covering downtown businesses and boring stuff like that. He'd never have thought he'd be sitting in a hijacked van, with the best opportunity for an award-winning story presented to him like a Thanksgiving turkey. He felt the ambition, as it started surging through his veins.
Mark, the assistant cameraman, who was called in to sub for Dave at the last minute, was not a happy camper. He had been asleep next to his girlfriend when he got the phone call. Robert, the daytime substitute cameraman, was on vacation, and could he pretty please come and help out the new news reporter. He knew he should have asked for more money when he renewed his contract. Crap like this was not the reason why he took this job. Now he didn't know what to think. Here he was, trapped in this minivan with two coworkers and some maniac. He felt ticked off. He hoped that this whole thing was going to be over. Soon.
Steve looked at Dave, the nauseated driver. He felt sorry. He hadn't wanted things to work out like this. Dave started looking a little paler. "Dude," Steve said, "are you gonna hurl? Because if you do, I don't want the mess in here."
"I'll be okay," Dave replied. "I just need a little fresh air. Mind if I roll down the window?"
"Sure, pal, go ahead."
After a few minutes, Charles spoke up. "Hey, man, I know you're pissed off about something. We’ll put you on live television so you can tell your story. You just say when, and Mark over here will start rolling."
"All right, then," Steve replied. "Fire her up."
Mark reluctantly started the camera rolling, focusing first on Charles.
"We're here inside the Channel 7 news van live with Steve Richardson, who has just hijacked our van while fleeing the courthouse."
Steve heard some rumbling outside. Peering out the window, he noticed two police choppers following the van. Dave the nauseated driver vomited outside the drivers window. “Damn it,” Steve said. “I should have known.”
Criteria:
- Duration: 30 minutes
- Keyword: vehicle
- Main character: sad
- Setting: live television
- Special clause: end the story with the sentence: "I should have known."
Charles approached the security detail that surrounds Steve Richardson. "Excuse me, Mr. Richardson," he began. "I was wondering whether you had any comments about the trial or the verdict or the sentence the judge handed down."
"No comment," Steve replied. His eyes looked hollow and red, as though he'd been crying considerably. Well, he had been crying. I mean who wouldn't have felt the heartstrings. What pain he must be feeling right now.
Then, all of a sudden, Steve pulled a gun from one of his captors and broke free. He headed toward a news van. Charles recognized his cameraman as the driver and dashed off toward the van. Steve hopped in the passenger side and aiming the gun, he ordered, "Drive." The cameraman began to drive. Charles had just enough time to hop in the back with the assistant manager who'd taken over for the cameraman, since Dave, the cameraman, had been feeling nausea all morning.
At first Steve objected to the last-minute passengers, but then, he figured that having the company would work out better. He could at least have someone to talk to, and he could get access to the audience. The public needed to know his story, his struggle. He felt motivated, though now as a fugitive, to make sure the world knew why he was running. And having some hostages for the ride meant that he could bargain.
Charles called out to Steve from the rear of the news van, "What are you doing? Are you nuts? Why are you hijacking our news van?"
"No answers. Not yet," Steve replied. "When the time comes, I want it to be live on TV."
He heard sirens approaching the van. "Don't slow down. Drive. Fast," he ordered Dave, the cameraman, who was driving, but feeling a bit more queasy due to the added stress.
Steve let out a big sigh. He'd never hijacked a van before. He'd never broken the law like this. If he were caught, he'd wind up in bigger trouble than what he wound up in court for. He looked up in the sky. Nope. No choppers. Not yet anyway.
Charles couldn't believe it either. He'd only joined the newstaff a few months ago, mainly covering downtown businesses and boring stuff like that. He'd never have thought he'd be sitting in a hijacked van, with the best opportunity for an award-winning story presented to him like a Thanksgiving turkey. He felt the ambition, as it started surging through his veins.
Mark, the assistant cameraman, who was called in to sub for Dave at the last minute, was not a happy camper. He had been asleep next to his girlfriend when he got the phone call. Robert, the daytime substitute cameraman, was on vacation, and could he pretty please come and help out the new news reporter. He knew he should have asked for more money when he renewed his contract. Crap like this was not the reason why he took this job. Now he didn't know what to think. Here he was, trapped in this minivan with two coworkers and some maniac. He felt ticked off. He hoped that this whole thing was going to be over. Soon.
Steve looked at Dave, the nauseated driver. He felt sorry. He hadn't wanted things to work out like this. Dave started looking a little paler. "Dude," Steve said, "are you gonna hurl? Because if you do, I don't want the mess in here."
"I'll be okay," Dave replied. "I just need a little fresh air. Mind if I roll down the window?"
"Sure, pal, go ahead."
After a few minutes, Charles spoke up. "Hey, man, I know you're pissed off about something. We’ll put you on live television so you can tell your story. You just say when, and Mark over here will start rolling."
"All right, then," Steve replied. "Fire her up."
Mark reluctantly started the camera rolling, focusing first on Charles.
"We're here inside the Channel 7 news van live with Steve Richardson, who has just hijacked our van while fleeing the courthouse."
Steve heard some rumbling outside. Peering out the window, he noticed two police choppers following the van. Dave the nauseated driver vomited outside the drivers window. “Damn it,” Steve said. “I should have known.”
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
Blogging the Christian Internet
Neat!
The latest Internet for Christians newsletter has a section about Christian blogging. Blogs4God.com is mentioned. My weblogs are a part of that community.
Neat!
The latest Internet for Christians newsletter has a section about Christian blogging. Blogs4God.com is mentioned. My weblogs are a part of that community.
Monday, December 02, 2002
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
Wednesday, October 16, 2002
Preface
Middletown, Ohio
May 6, 1999
I suppose that some people will think it’s arrogant to write a book about my life. Heck, I am struggling with that thought, too. I guess I have a few objectives in writing this autobiography. For one thing, I’ve kept a lot of these memories inside and I would like to get them down on paper. I don’t know much about my parents’ childhoods or my grandparents’ lives. I want to record this because it’s history. All who have ever lived and will ever live are part of history. Perhaps no one will read this. I’m fine with that. I want my children and their children to know about my life. I want them to know I am real, to see my strengths and weaknesses, successes and failures, and somehow to be encouraged that, if I can make it, then they can, too.
I started thinking about writing this after my wife Jennie and daughter Keisha watched the video of Keisha’s birth. We wondered, what if Keisha could meet some of the people who were born on the same day as she was and in that same hospital. That got me to think about how God puts people in the times and places in history so that we could seek him (Acts 17.24). I thought, “How has God used the events of my life thus far to get me to where I am today?”
Middletown, Ohio
May 6, 1999
I suppose that some people will think it’s arrogant to write a book about my life. Heck, I am struggling with that thought, too. I guess I have a few objectives in writing this autobiography. For one thing, I’ve kept a lot of these memories inside and I would like to get them down on paper. I don’t know much about my parents’ childhoods or my grandparents’ lives. I want to record this because it’s history. All who have ever lived and will ever live are part of history. Perhaps no one will read this. I’m fine with that. I want my children and their children to know about my life. I want them to know I am real, to see my strengths and weaknesses, successes and failures, and somehow to be encouraged that, if I can make it, then they can, too.
I started thinking about writing this after my wife Jennie and daughter Keisha watched the video of Keisha’s birth. We wondered, what if Keisha could meet some of the people who were born on the same day as she was and in that same hospital. That got me to think about how God puts people in the times and places in history so that we could seek him (Acts 17.24). I thought, “How has God used the events of my life thus far to get me to where I am today?”
In the search for content...
... I found... me!
I found some stuff I had written awhile back that I planned for an autobiography. By awhile back, I mean almost three years ago before my thirtieth birthday. I was going to entitle it Three Decades of Me. I may still write an autobiography, but I might wind up entitling it Four Decades of Me instead.
... I found... me!
I found some stuff I had written awhile back that I planned for an autobiography. By awhile back, I mean almost three years ago before my thirtieth birthday. I was going to entitle it Three Decades of Me. I may still write an autobiography, but I might wind up entitling it Four Decades of Me instead.
Tuesday, October 15, 2002
Thursday, October 03, 2002
GAMBOLING
13 December 1987
The spinning wheel nears the end of its last revolution as I see it approach my number. I look to the square where I have placed my money, and pangs of anxiety begin to grip me, almost immobilizing me. What can I do but sit and accept the inevitable? Jolts of electricity in my brain I feel, as my mind is sent into a whilr of darkness. I would have fainted but for the sounds of the wheel coming to a stop and the man declaring, "Number Three is the winner!"
All of a sudden blood rushes back into by head and I start to yell and shout. Who wouldn't? Mad with ecstasy, I look to my square, "lonely number three," where all my winning from tonight had been placed, totalling more than $10,000 dollars, and drop to my knees and exclaim, "Thanks be to God, for today He has shown me that suffering leads to a transient life!"
I turn to my wife and kids, tears in our eyes, and joyfully tell them, "Yes, family, we do have a place to sleep tonight."
13 December 1987
The spinning wheel nears the end of its last revolution as I see it approach my number. I look to the square where I have placed my money, and pangs of anxiety begin to grip me, almost immobilizing me. What can I do but sit and accept the inevitable? Jolts of electricity in my brain I feel, as my mind is sent into a whilr of darkness. I would have fainted but for the sounds of the wheel coming to a stop and the man declaring, "Number Three is the winner!"
All of a sudden blood rushes back into by head and I start to yell and shout. Who wouldn't? Mad with ecstasy, I look to my square, "lonely number three," where all my winning from tonight had been placed, totalling more than $10,000 dollars, and drop to my knees and exclaim, "Thanks be to God, for today He has shown me that suffering leads to a transient life!"
I turn to my wife and kids, tears in our eyes, and joyfully tell them, "Yes, family, we do have a place to sleep tonight."
Troubled Slumber
I wake from my slumber in a deep, cold sweat with confusion swirling inside my head. I am caught in a whirlwind of emotions, for the nightmare has lodged itself onto my skull. I am afflicted with desire, yet you are anot all I want. Not anymore. You alone cannot satisfy me. I turn to look at you. You haven't moved an inch. How is this possible, I wonder, for my scream could have woken the entire neighborhood.
I bend over to kiss you, and then you begin to stir. I continue to do so, in an attempt to fill you with desire and passion. Your eyes are now open. Your smile causes me to smile. You reach up to kiss me, and your fingers run through my hair. My kisses caress your neck and lips, and you begin to undress me. I slowly ease my way down to gently kiss your breasts. You moan with delight. We make love.
At least three more times, I wake up with sweat soaking my body like a sponge. You remain still.
It is now morning. You haven't waken up yet, but I've begun to fix your breakfast. I turn toward the bed occasionally to wacht you sleep, to wach you in this peaceful, angelic state.
If only things could always be this way...
I wake from my slumber in a deep, cold sweat with confusion swirling inside my head. I am caught in a whirlwind of emotions, for the nightmare has lodged itself onto my skull. I am afflicted with desire, yet you are anot all I want. Not anymore. You alone cannot satisfy me. I turn to look at you. You haven't moved an inch. How is this possible, I wonder, for my scream could have woken the entire neighborhood.
I bend over to kiss you, and then you begin to stir. I continue to do so, in an attempt to fill you with desire and passion. Your eyes are now open. Your smile causes me to smile. You reach up to kiss me, and your fingers run through my hair. My kisses caress your neck and lips, and you begin to undress me. I slowly ease my way down to gently kiss your breasts. You moan with delight. We make love.
At least three more times, I wake up with sweat soaking my body like a sponge. You remain still.
It is now morning. You haven't waken up yet, but I've begun to fix your breakfast. I turn toward the bed occasionally to wacht you sleep, to wach you in this peaceful, angelic state.
If only things could always be this way...
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
100words.net crossposted to Journey Inside My Mind
You may or may not have been aware that I began contributing to 100words.net last month. The way it works is that each day I write 100 words - typos and all - and submit them to the site.
Good news! Last month's entries are now available for you to view. Almost all of the time, the entries are random, with no connected meaning to each other. However, toward the end of last month, I started a little bit of a story line. It's been interesting, to say the least, adding only 100 words at a time.
You may or may not have been aware that I began contributing to 100words.net last month. The way it works is that each day I write 100 words - typos and all - and submit them to the site.
Good news! Last month's entries are now available for you to view. Almost all of the time, the entries are random, with no connected meaning to each other. However, toward the end of last month, I started a little bit of a story line. It's been interesting, to say the least, adding only 100 words at a time.
Sunday, September 29, 2002
THE FUTURE AND BEYOND
originally written as a journal entry from high school senior English class.
Sometime around the year 2050 a number of people begin to experience what many have called "Jazzmania." Those such inflicted tend to wear dark glasses, snap their fingers while saying, "Yeah, man. Cool." They also grow hair on their faces, and exhibit other anomalies. It's also not unusual for these people to be musicians.
These people are so ahead of their time that the world loks upon them as outcasts. Eventually, it decides to rid itself of these potential menaces to society, these Jazzmaniacs, by developing an institution that will serve as a rehabilitation center. Some say this institution will function better if it were run like a city.
By this time technology has so advanced that scientists have found a way for a satellite to remain in constant orbit around a planet. So a worldwide event takes place among the various scientists of the world, and with the cooperation of the United Nations, one of the very first space stations develops. One of the landmarks of technology, the task is completed in one year. The satellite is launched on 16 April 2070, a historic date because it coincides with the 100-year birthday of the Founder of the Future Jazz Men of America, who was born in 1970.
There the Jazzmaniacs have lived, coping with their disorder, supervised by social workers. But on those times when the social workers have left for the evening, these people let thier creative energies flow, because they realize that someday when the world advances to the artistic level where they are, they will return to planet Earth and jam whenever they wish without being considered outcasts.
As the Founder of the Future Jazz Men of America once said, "Jazz may fade in and out, but it will never leave completely. Jazz is our native art form, abnd deep within our hearts is the heritage from which it has sprung."
originally written as a journal entry from high school senior English class.
Sometime around the year 2050 a number of people begin to experience what many have called "Jazzmania." Those such inflicted tend to wear dark glasses, snap their fingers while saying, "Yeah, man. Cool." They also grow hair on their faces, and exhibit other anomalies. It's also not unusual for these people to be musicians.
These people are so ahead of their time that the world loks upon them as outcasts. Eventually, it decides to rid itself of these potential menaces to society, these Jazzmaniacs, by developing an institution that will serve as a rehabilitation center. Some say this institution will function better if it were run like a city.
By this time technology has so advanced that scientists have found a way for a satellite to remain in constant orbit around a planet. So a worldwide event takes place among the various scientists of the world, and with the cooperation of the United Nations, one of the very first space stations develops. One of the landmarks of technology, the task is completed in one year. The satellite is launched on 16 April 2070, a historic date because it coincides with the 100-year birthday of the Founder of the Future Jazz Men of America, who was born in 1970.
There the Jazzmaniacs have lived, coping with their disorder, supervised by social workers. But on those times when the social workers have left for the evening, these people let thier creative energies flow, because they realize that someday when the world advances to the artistic level where they are, they will return to planet Earth and jam whenever they wish without being considered outcasts.
As the Founder of the Future Jazz Men of America once said, "Jazz may fade in and out, but it will never leave completely. Jazz is our native art form, abnd deep within our hearts is the heritage from which it has sprung."
You're Reading It -- You Name It
(Eating Can Be Dangerous To Your Health)
Working at a restaurant has its own advantages, especially when you like the type of food you can make. I am learning this on the first day of training at Angilo's Pizza. Observing the make-up table, I find all the ingredients exposed to me. More delights become available as I learn to work the prep table: the various meats, french fries, onion rings, deep-fried mushrooms, shrimp, and fish.
As I continue to work, the boss announces that I am entitled to one meal for dinner.
"Great!" I exclaim, and my mind goes into a whirl. Then, as I calm down to regain equanimity, I am resolved. "Tonight," I declare, "I will sample the culinary delights of this place for the first time."
I go to work. Slicing a sandwich bun in half, pouring pizza sauce on it, I begin my pleasure-journey. For now onions, green olives, mushrooms, green peppers, banana peppers, and extra chese call to me, almost begging to be together atop my masterpiece. I then place some lunchmeat onto a pan and slide it into the oven with my sandwich.
To make it a perfect meal, though, I need some french fries with cheese. After some four minutes my lunchmeat sandwich, along with my fries with cheese, all hot and greasy, beckon me towards them, urging me to experience their exquisite tastes.
To accompany this last part of my pleasure-journey, I pour some Mountain Dew into my LaRosa's cup I got from one of our school's basketball games.
Upon taking the first bite, my body begins to convulse, twitching this way and that. Assaying desperately to regain my composure, I hold onto the table, but it, too, begins to shake. Suddenly, I'm thrown from my chair onto the floor, and I begin to heave. Finally, regurgitation brings up my heart, now full of grease and oil.
Aghast, I scream, but my voice is not hear amid the thumping inside my head. I begin to choke, and blood is coughed up from my mouth. Finally, Nature is satisfied with her trick and lets me be. But now, you see, it's been too late, for too much blood has been lost.
(Eating Can Be Dangerous To Your Health)
Working at a restaurant has its own advantages, especially when you like the type of food you can make. I am learning this on the first day of training at Angilo's Pizza. Observing the make-up table, I find all the ingredients exposed to me. More delights become available as I learn to work the prep table: the various meats, french fries, onion rings, deep-fried mushrooms, shrimp, and fish.
As I continue to work, the boss announces that I am entitled to one meal for dinner.
"Great!" I exclaim, and my mind goes into a whirl. Then, as I calm down to regain equanimity, I am resolved. "Tonight," I declare, "I will sample the culinary delights of this place for the first time."
I go to work. Slicing a sandwich bun in half, pouring pizza sauce on it, I begin my pleasure-journey. For now onions, green olives, mushrooms, green peppers, banana peppers, and extra chese call to me, almost begging to be together atop my masterpiece. I then place some lunchmeat onto a pan and slide it into the oven with my sandwich.
To make it a perfect meal, though, I need some french fries with cheese. After some four minutes my lunchmeat sandwich, along with my fries with cheese, all hot and greasy, beckon me towards them, urging me to experience their exquisite tastes.
To accompany this last part of my pleasure-journey, I pour some Mountain Dew into my LaRosa's cup I got from one of our school's basketball games.
Upon taking the first bite, my body begins to convulse, twitching this way and that. Assaying desperately to regain my composure, I hold onto the table, but it, too, begins to shake. Suddenly, I'm thrown from my chair onto the floor, and I begin to heave. Finally, regurgitation brings up my heart, now full of grease and oil.
Aghast, I scream, but my voice is not hear amid the thumping inside my head. I begin to choke, and blood is coughed up from my mouth. Finally, Nature is satisfied with her trick and lets me be. But now, you see, it's been too late, for too much blood has been lost.
Saturday, September 28, 2002
Sunday, September 22, 2002
MATURATION This one was written in 1991. I may tell the story on the circumstances behind it at another time.
Lately is has been seen that the lives of the insignificant few have been overwhelmed by the many. Neither group can understand the essential. Tragedy shows its eerie colour on the faces of those who have laboured so long and hard to achieve that for which they have striven. The fruits of their labours are not evident, and all that is true seems lost. Panic swells within the multitude, and outrage blankets the entire population.
For a long time internal disorder rages throughout the community like a violent infection. Young lives full of tremendous potential are lost. The wisdom of the elders is cast away like a contaminated piece of meat. Women in anguish see their husbands and children horribly compelled to fight for that which still seems real.
A dark, smoglike mist hangs over the population. Disease and famine eventually wipe out the weak. The community strives to maintain its sanity. On the physically and mentally strong are able to survive. And they do!
This new generation begets a more advanced way of life, and the standard of living is exponentially increased. Soon joy and happiness begin to reappear on the faces of the people, and the black cloud of despair is washed away by the refreshing mist of hope.
Harmony originates. The concept of the group-- cooperation-- becomes a high standard amoung the people, but individuality within the group is also prevalent. Life appears much easier. All are able to communicate well with one another, and there is an acceleration of progress. Inefficiency is eventually eliminated. The cooperative group works toward a cleaner environment, and soon all are breathing the fresh air of reassurance that measures have been taken to prevent another violent outburst from ever occurring. Sheer strength is demonstrated by the individual members of the community in their enduring ability to asseble and work toward common goals and universal needs. The cleansing process is complete. And all is well...
Lately is has been seen that the lives of the insignificant few have been overwhelmed by the many. Neither group can understand the essential. Tragedy shows its eerie colour on the faces of those who have laboured so long and hard to achieve that for which they have striven. The fruits of their labours are not evident, and all that is true seems lost. Panic swells within the multitude, and outrage blankets the entire population.
For a long time internal disorder rages throughout the community like a violent infection. Young lives full of tremendous potential are lost. The wisdom of the elders is cast away like a contaminated piece of meat. Women in anguish see their husbands and children horribly compelled to fight for that which still seems real.
A dark, smoglike mist hangs over the population. Disease and famine eventually wipe out the weak. The community strives to maintain its sanity. On the physically and mentally strong are able to survive. And they do!
This new generation begets a more advanced way of life, and the standard of living is exponentially increased. Soon joy and happiness begin to reappear on the faces of the people, and the black cloud of despair is washed away by the refreshing mist of hope.
Harmony originates. The concept of the group-- cooperation-- becomes a high standard amoung the people, but individuality within the group is also prevalent. Life appears much easier. All are able to communicate well with one another, and there is an acceleration of progress. Inefficiency is eventually eliminated. The cooperative group works toward a cleaner environment, and soon all are breathing the fresh air of reassurance that measures have been taken to prevent another violent outburst from ever occurring. Sheer strength is demonstrated by the individual members of the community in their enduring ability to asseble and work toward common goals and universal needs. The cleansing process is complete. And all is well...
CONFUSION
Originally written the day after the 'Challenger' space shuttle explosion, January 1986
Revised 21 October 1987
Originally written the day after the 'Challenger' space shuttle explosion, January 1986
Revised 21 October 1987
- When you feel the world has beaten the snot
out of you and you don't know all the reasons. - When you mourn over a tragic incident
without knowing why it happened - When the President tries to console you by saying
that the seven involved in that incident were
able to "touch the face of God" and people still
feel bad. - When you don't know all the reasons
- When you can't find the answers to your questions
- Do we mourn because we thought we were
so great that no one, not even God, could stop us? - Is God a God that punishes us for going beyond
the golden mean? - I s the reason for our sorrow the fact that we miss those people?
- Or is it because we don't know how to explain to
their children why their mommys and daddys
cannot come home and where they've gone? - Is that our confusion?
- If Heaven is supposed to be such a great
place, then why do people cry and mourn and
wear black clothes when others die? - Is this an instance of our trying to overcome
Fate, by not wishing these people to leave us so soon?
- Do I really know what I'm talking about?
- Why can't I express all of my feelings on
paper so that they'll give the same impression
that the idea gave to my mind? The way it is
with these ideas, these fleeting images which I
consider important, is that my brain picks them
out so quickly that the ideas are incomprehensible
once I place the words on the paper. - Is that confusion?
What?!
How can she expect me to feel the same
Whe she herself has changed?
It hurts me to try to understand,
Why she's doing this to herself.
It is so sad --
The way I feel for her
Not pity -- (Is it love?)
But she and I are not totally different,
For with her possibly puzzled mind there exists,
My true feelings in this puzzle of words.
So now I wait until she comes across
These words
And attempts to decipher this puzzle.
And maybe by doing that,
She could decipher her own.
Why does she do it?
How can she expect me to feel the same
Whe she herself has changed?
It hurts me to try to understand,
Why she's doing this to herself.
It is so sad --
The way I feel for her
Not pity -- (Is it love?)
But she and I are not totally different,
For with her possibly puzzled mind there exists,
My true feelings in this puzzle of words.
So now I wait until she comes across
These words
And attempts to decipher this puzzle.
And maybe by doing that,
She could decipher her own.
Your file is corrupt
Time to Control + Alt + Delete
There is no other way
Invalid page fault
Has occurred in your software
File is now closing
System has frozen
You are now presented with
The Blue Screen of Death
Machine has now crashed
All unsaved work will be lost--
You Have a Nice Day
Your PC has locked
For the ninteenth time today
Grab your sledgehammer
Email server's down
No more communication
ETA unknown
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