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The sermon for May. 11, 2003 is: that's reality 11:51 p.m. I have to go to bed but there's this ache in my heart, dear Diary, I am lonely and I want to tell someone why. But I don't know why and I know why and if I can't tell you coherently, dear secret diary, what hope have I in ever reaching across the divide and making contact with someone else? The sad fact that I don't have a someone else even to essay the attempt makes me ache more. And of course I hate and revile my disgustingly pathetic need to matter to someone. I wish I could just give up and turn to Christianity or conspiracy theory, something that would replace the incurious indifference of the world and empty sky with someone who is paying attention; even if that someone is actively working to destroy you, like god or the CIA, at least that's some kind of validation. But I don't believe in jesus, and I don't believe in conspiracies. I don't even believe in me. Yoko and me.
 
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