How that must be - the ultimate accumulation of your totality - in one last gasp - there have been so many of these, and we haven't any knowledge of so many. How many people have last words quoted and recorded, vs. the countless people who have died in sand with starvation clutching their ribs, died in water with the ocean choking the last words with a wave, died slumped in a hotel room with a needle in their arm, drugs furiously pumping through viens, last words threaded out and recorded into air, and it dissipates with the sunrise, turns to the simple molecules of the equivilant of car exhaust, dissolving into something as mundane as traffic or as important as another person's lips.

Tonight the electronic beats hit hard and like static, and they're artificial and tonal and processed, but underneath it all there is a humanity that comes through the programs and ProTools.

Lately I've had an awfully hard time coming across true emotion, barring the ladyfriend. It's like some language that I've never heard, it's just phoenetics and sounds to me like jumps in volume that I don't understand, a thick layer of superficiality (not a proper word, but in this journal I take a "poetic license"), some set of words and a series of english that I don't understand.

I hear some of it underneath a fuzz of a bad connection over the phone, and I hear more of it while curled up in covers, but when people are so sunk in themselves that they can't possibly get out and get vulnurable, it's like a business meeting. I just want to feel that elation of the unexpected, or perhaps that simple togetherness. The screaming fear that rails like a banshee suggests that it's gone. Well, look - I'm still crossing my fingers. So much has told me otherwise, but I've seen Rome black out at night from the Colluseum and I've seen my friends woken up on stretchers in the hospital and say my name - who am I to disturb the universe? Stranger things have happened.

Let's hope so.

tired,
Jared