I bought a book today. Actually Two books. Actually Three. But one doesn't count... it is just a guide on how to write. Goes by the name of, "A Pocket Style Manual". Next is a book which I may read cover to cover for fun, but in the meantime must read for World Views, The Good War. The Third is one that I bought sheerly for shits and giggles and because I feel as though my brain is shrinking, starved of creative thought and metaphorically rich writing rife with it's hidden meanings and other trickery. The name of this book is The General in His Labyrinth. It is written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I'm really flipping excited. Off I go to reading land. Forever. Away from things and thoughts that disturb me. Away from EVERYTHING. I can read and then the world dissappears, and I no longer exsist. Reading is the closest that you can get to suicide except for the blood, and the pain, and the death... oooook so bad analogy... but still. I cease to exsist. I don't think that is a bad thing for me.

You say that I have no power? Perhaps you speak truly... But you say that Dreams have no power here? Tell me... what power would hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of heaven?
-Morpheus
Sandman

-CR