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...