What am I focusing on? Out of touch, out of place.

Mind blank.

Do the stars still shine in the night sky? Where is my fire? Do I have anything worth saying left?

I had a dream last night, today, earlier in the afternoon, whenever.

In it, I was moving to... Seattle? Or San Francisco? Somewhere out there. Where was I going to stay? In a motel until I found a job? Or just in the car, maybe. I don't know. Then I was going to get an apartment.

All up in the air, but I didn't care.

Then the noise of someone outside shouting penetrated the closed window and woke me up. Why am I always in the same place again?

I wish I had something more interesting to write about. The Links section has taken over my page to a degree beyond what I had intended. At least it's something though. Something is better than nothing, even if it only consists of piggybacking everybody else's content.

I have a suspicion this is coming off as a bunch of depressed musings about nothing, which is why I'm tempted to abort it. But I think I'm just a little too far in by now.

Should I sit and whine about how nobody I sent my resume to has even replied at all? No, that sort of thing is so old.

No matter what I write, it basicly amounts to reiterating stuff I've been over a zillion times before.

Peak oil has arrived, folks. Well, technically, it might still be a few years away. Or it might not. No one really knows for sure. Either way, the current gas prices are only the beginning. The wise would sell their cars now while there's still other people willing to pay money for them, but I haven't done that yet, nor do I particularly want to. I'd rather keep living in denial along with the rest of the sheeple, drive to Best Buy, and forget about all these problems, personal and global.

The hurt is all around. It clouds my vision. But still I try to block it out. Or wish for a painless death.

Sorry, doesn't work that way.

Try to enjoy whatever is here, while it's here, for as long as it lasts. That's what I'd like to do. I mean that in more than one sense. Sometimes I succeed. Other times, like this moment, I wallow in fear and dispair, unappreciative. But a lot of the time, there's a little bit of both going on, in proportions just enough to keep me where I am.

What am I saying?

If this prose sucks, it's because there's not a whole lot of thought behind it. Just little fragments of half-cognitive brain activity. No carefully plotted proofs, or logical constructions, nor much in the way of poetic symbolism. Just mundane exhaust fumes, that don't really even have the poignancy of true angst.

That's all I can muster for tonight, and even this is pushing it. I'm not really sleepy, but my head is falling over on the desk. Bored now. The only question left being what access level to give this. Aw hell, make it a 10. That'll do.

:wq