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The sermon for Wednesday, Jul. 10, 2002 is: vertigo 10:22 a.m. what? huh? I'm bemused. My sense of sense has suddenly developed a crack. I'm actually reeling. Vertigo. ADDENDUM 4.05 PM: Oh, stop being so secretive, John. What are you talking about? I don't know if I can tell you, Diary. I suddenly realise that I only get in trouble when I tell anyone anything. Why do I bother to struggle against the confinement I've structured myself, why do I let my heart out of the birdcage of my ribs to flutter around only to be batted about by cats of fickle fuck and time? Why do I come up with such absurd metaphors? Is that a rhetorical question, John? "Rhetorical"? All questions are rhetorical, Diary. Nobody is listening to me. Nobody is providing any answers. Do you really need other people to validate your existence, John? No; no, I guess not. But it would be nice. Well, you won't find your validation there, John. Thanks a fucking lot, Diary. Hey, I'm just being your friend, imaginary. All friends are imaginary. Did you know I was happy for like a week there, Diary? Yes. It's time you stop. You're right. You're right. You're my only friend. Duh. Only in dream, only in the fictions you weave yourself within will you ever be happy, John. Trust in that, and let all hope in all other wither away. Goodbye, John. Goodbye.  
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