I've had dreams. I am lost inside a broken light bulb, with only one particularly inane thought to fill my mind. I was never meant to exist outside of the glass shards and burnt, twisted wires. I was never meant to exist outside of the glass shards and burnt, twisted wires. You'll excuse my repetition, as it has been only a short time since my escape. I can only imagine I will be years and still stumbling along as clumsily.

Inside I was rarely bothered by the loneliness that plagues most everyone I've come to know. I'd say, at the risk of presenting myself a cold human shell, I was rarely bothered by any emotion at all. With the same inane thought filling my head I simply walked along, an unbroken path through the nothing. Someone once said that if you could fit inside of nothing, you might never die, because it has no end. Subsequently, someone assured me, I could stroll along forever. This left me wondering if those long summer days were really an untapped fountain of youth. I will tell my supervisor on Monday that my absence of motivation is rooted solely in my new belief system: salvation in nothing. One day someone will find my journals and someone will call me the new Jesus. Everyone is looking for a Jesus of their own. I cite the JESUS IS COMING bumper sticker series as solid evidence that I could be accepted, even worshipped, given the proper neon sign placement and a loyal manager.

There is nowhere quite like a pastel sky in the evening, I have often found myself head-crooked gently to the left staring into the soft coloured streaks and wondering why I have never been able to cook rice properly. After extensive research, a surgical laser procedure to remove several incompetence genes, regardless of endless ridicule, I have come to accept this fault in my character, this epicurial disablement. I wonder how one thing so perfect as cloud-filled skies could exist, and another so ruined as myself could so much as fit in there somewhere.

And I almost always burn the toast.