It hasn't even been a whole hour since I've written. I think I just crave interaction, whether human or not. Maybe my emptiness that I feel isn't fully empty. I just feel like a complete and utter mess. I suppose I feel a concotion of emotions, a chimera of my own thoughts. Confusion, sadness, anger, emptiness, desire, self-hatred, and a hint of false happiness. All of this creating a sense of false perceptions that cloud my judgement entirely. I suppose that I am in a way a juxtaposition of a person. The epitome of a calamity waiting to happen. A walking catastrophe waiting to self destruct and become a conglomeration of atoms, ready to become one with the universe once more in a conclusion which has no end, no future, just an utterly catostraphic entity with no individual conciousness maybe there is no conciousness at all. I guess rambling has become my thoughts and this book. I give my sincerest thanks.
Confusingly,
James
