This is a slip of paper I found in a box of stuff I haven't looked at since I moved in September. It was dated 6/24/99.

I create all these puzzle pieces that don't fit together. All these lists and ideas written on paper that never create one complete idea. But I still do it. I've got files and piles, half-full composition books and spiral notebooks with bent ribs. Loose leaf, backs of envelopes, flyers for shows I didn't go to, check stubs.

Give me paper, even parts of paper, and I will write.

And here. So many words that don't say much when added up. I must be a holding pen for vacant, rampant thoughts. The only place where they can be exorcised is onto paper, and even then they're not in any order. These bits of paper swim about in my room like aquarium food the fish couldn't eat: leftovers.

Still, inside me burns that little trite flame that these words will, in time, be of use to someone. It's a continuing theme that the only way to bring this chaos some meaning is to toss it to someone else as food.

If only my words could collect with the accuracy of sweat on a Burger King cup of Coke. Nothing I've ever written can produce this natural miracle.

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