Death of a soul

Loneliness, or rather solitude, is a powerful thought-inducer. The inner monologue gives, and takes, and crafts thoughts and forms them into something complete. I'm no longer alone, I'm no longer pensive.

I feel empty working all the time and having few opportunities to reflect upon and ponder life's subtleties. I never write any more, and my reading time has declined to half an hour before I retire my body and mind to sleep. I realize now that it takes an effort to keep my spirit mindful of the throbbing pulse of life, and that the rote of it can pull you into that current where before you were sitting lazily on the bank, watching it go by. Perspective is lost as one loses perspective in a tornado, and cannot view it's awful beauty for his very proximity to it. This, what I write now, is weak and strained, and overly allegorical.

Today I made the coolest wall. "Boss," I said, "I gotta say, this is really a very awesome wall. I believe that this wall is the very culmination of my framing career." He looked up at the wall, then at me, and then said, "Guys, let's stop for a sec here and look at Dave's wall." And Jay gave me the same look that he gave the safety superintendent when the super thanked him for putting on his hard hat. "Jay doesn't like your wall," said boss.

It is a strange and new thing, this, ah, full time work, strange and new indeed.

How many men does it take to open a bottle of beer?

None. It should be open when she brings it.