by: Mark Thomas [[email protected]]
date: 10/24/95 10:47 AM
Another day, another day, and another of another days. I've returned to idling on IRC for days straight. After I came back to IRC a few weeks ago, having avoided it for a couple of months, I became immediately and uncontrollably depressed. Not just sad or regretful, but my breathing slowed and my head gripped itself with that certain pain that captures my life without warning. It's not a hostile pain, in fact it feels rather safe. But "another day," that expression is bland as butter but it always reminds me of Dickens, "The Night Shadows" chapter of "A Tale of Two Cities."
A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every breathing heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should be shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my sould, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mind to my life's end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them? *


18:24 PM

The radio is playing Gershwin. I'm guessing that it's Gershwin. I am certainly getting a cold of some kind, and it's a shitty thing. *


12:45 AM (Wednesday)
I wonder what this means? 

Date: Wed, 25 Oct 95 00:00:42 0600
From: FirstName LastName <[email protected]>
Organization: University Of Utah-MLMC
To: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)

ttryrt
*