What's fantastic about this site is the crucial notion that no one knows I am writing here. That isn't to imply that throngs of readers were relentlessly begging for more and more; The last two weblogs were monitored by parties staking a vested interest in my disposition, mental well-being and dedication. Here I make no qualms about writing sincerely; My name and photograph have been disassociated with this site, creating a much needed respite from the daily abuse such thorough analyzation can induce.

There is, of course, the inseperable notion that a writer needs an audience. The materialization of any thought, catechismal to self definition or hopelessly mundane, undoubtedly eludes clandestinity; conveyance carries with it the implication of understanding. I am certain that each word written has an intended reader, albeit unintentional interception and hence misinterpretation are inevitable. Still I wonder, will I compromise this, an intensive glance into the recesses of my thought, all to avenge the miscommunication that plagued what I once thought to be righteous?

Do you still think you know who I am? I'm willing to put money on the contrary; You aren't looking in the right place. I am what is colloquially known as "fucked up"; This is my little secret. If the powers that be found that out, there'd be quite a mess to clean up, and few would have the tools necessary to take on such a daunting task.

Semantic jargon, undoubtedly...

Someone close to me smells like her; I can't identify the person. Only the nuance of the scent reveals itself as the stagnant air moves about this institutionalized lecture hall. There are far too many people in this room to discern its owner, anyhow. What's more, I'm altogether certain this matters little to you, yet somehow I find myself writing concise excerpts of thought these days. There are pages upon pages piling up, and I wonder, Will anyone ever read any of this?