I want so much to say but I can't think of anything real good. I could pour more of my revealing insecurities into this cybernook, but there has been too much of that lately.
Maybe it's because my daily actions seem to embody all the originality I used to sequester in these rambles. Now these posts turn sour and presumptuous, bitter because they resort to reflecting the imperfection of reality. There is little left to sublimate.
Again, I can't help but feel there is nothing wrong. It is likely just the strangeness of that overwhelming oddity that has me off guard.
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