I'm not entirely sure how you ended up on this page...it would imply some sort of interest in my life. I don't know who you are or why you decided to care, or if you even do care. But regardless, I feel some sort of obligation to explain myself, to somehow validate my person; offer an excuse for my existence. Justification eludes me: I have no excuse. My being seems to be little more than an extended interlocutory; I’m waiting. For what, I have an idea, but I can't have it yet and there is nothing I can do to accelerate the realization of my ideals. This is a source of immense frustration within my life. I have found writing to be theraputic and have taken to venting my frustrations within a Journal. It has been filtered, censored, abridged, and edited for your viewing. I have quit writing entries and do not intend to resume. I also have a "will". When I'm dead, that might be of interest.