I Shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent. Watching the future come and the present go - and the little shifting pictures of people rushing in tiny self-importance to and fro.


The "next blog" button has this strange, cloying appeal. The cursor moving over it suspends like dice cupped in your hands, driving smooth dull indentions as you shake, ready to click onto something (someone) new. You could be shuffled into a family vacation blog, or one with a password (I hate those, they are so pretentious, I feel like I haven't been chosen for the dodgeball team or something), you could end up somewhere political, obscene, in a foreign language, or honest. When you're writing, ready to post on the vast, anonymous network, it's the third martini olive that rolls up to your lip. Inhibitions down.

And you, reader, who are you? Craving a tryst with the unknown? What does a reader want from a blog? Submit a personal add. The ideal blog is funny, liberal, can cook, great personality, grammatically correct, long walks on the beach, etc.

I suppose I write this blog with a savior complex. When I get down to it, I am under the belief that I post a fragment of me here, composed of actual fibers and desperations, reading it will close you, open you, change you, heat you, cut you, if only for the brevity of a moment of a flicker of a dice roll.