thoughts, insights, perhaps in the style of woolfe.

there is only so much time in the day, i work architecture for the paycheck. clay is the new obsession, it seems. other things have been before. i throw everything at it - all my time, all my thought, all my energy. i want all of it, all knowledge, all depth, all breadth. i dream about it, and my spare thoughts go there while i am elsewhere. i've had flings - with one person or another, with one interest or another - where that becomes my primary object of interest. everything else becomes an aside, becomes less important than my current object of desire. but to what end? i seek fulfillment, but at some level of intimacy with any object i find that it, too, in the end, is empty.

i am unsteady. i immerse myself in emptiness. nothing else exists. i am dead.

i seek to experience, to experience everything. i love the cool night air and waves crashing and stars overhead, curl of smoke, the sweetness of cloves on my lips. i love lazy mornings, sun filtering in, breeze caressing my face and i slowly awaken. i exist in the moment of existence; the last moment is already gone, i am only in the present, the next moment does not exist. i follow my whims, i touch, i laugh, i explore. i am impish, a trouble-maker, i seek to surprise people and make them laugh. i laugh in surprise, myself. pain is only a sensation, a sudden twinge brings a gasp before a smile. it makes me feel alive. clouds move swiftly across the sky, invisible breeze; time passes quickly and i wait for salvation, awaken the dawn, haunt the night with my searching. and the answer is immediate, closer than my skin, infinite as the sky, it is this, there is no more, and this is enough.

then the moment passes and i am searching again.