Exhibit A: feb. '98

Exhibit A: Torn page.
Whip out words when regret needs a soapbox. The "never-see-it-again" trick didn't work. Drivel is as foggy minds trip over pen.

In a land that loves me, my old favorite ghost knocks on my chest -- remember this twinge.
Don't forget to fret.
I feel full of monks having a fist-fight with a pile of cotton candy. Emptiness was supposed to dial up that new path. Denial isn't about instant gratification. My emotions talked to too many strangers, my resolve shoots craps with hidden smoky organ hustlers waiting for their inspiration to tell them to go against their instincts. But what are instincts but a bag of paper mache clothes. Identity is not a robe, or a witticism, or a habit (or lack). It's that old ghost.