2005-01-04 - 9:21 a.m.
He stamped my hand.
Admission paid for time spent looking at the remnants of life.
None remaining.
She, a connection to the past.
I, look toward the future.
Resentment.
Pressure to discover.
Create.
I'm supposed to know,
feel,
experience something.
Maybe life is too loud,
silence too quiet.
Passive.
Or maybe I am.
My connection is severed by the realization that I cannot just dance on command.
So much smoke and mirrors,
that I cannot find my way.
Even with directions
and due dates.
