March 24, 1999: Man did not create nature
My lungs reach for air as if they’re being starved—oxygen sucked in like fingers latching onto candy. A thought is born…a mind that’s jogging and or weight lifting—pressing to bend the avenues of normality—to welcome an expressway of unexplained. Deep thought is a wonderful place to travel—a lonely country road with few passer by’s. I push hard to leap toward any mood, as long as I don’t have to stop…but I do. I’m addicted to looking out at the forest—still no spring leaves. It must be pissed off at me. I’ve cut the vines and taken away the underbrush—I’ve allowed air to sink within the soil, in hopes the trees will become strong again. Who am I to do this?