I need a new sketchbook. I feel empty and without purpose. As though since I am not in the process of recording the things which my eyes see and the things which my ears her, and most of all, the grumblings and rumblings within my ribcage are being lost in this vast space before me. It is snowing again, and fresh and new all over again. Yet rather than understanding that it is new and clean, it seems like the new whiteness is merely a farce. Doesn't anyone else see it? All it really is doing is covering up the dirty snowflakes which have already died weeks ago, from yellow dog pee, and leaking car oil, and the torrid rains that nearly flooded this place. The freezing cold temperatures don't help matters at all either. Instead of melting, and washing away down the drain, the impurities remain frozen in place, frozen in time, frozen from movement, frozen from progress...I was watching this show on the tube today - they spoke of a crime committed in Wichita, Kansas where 5 persons were abducted from their homes, after being assaulted and abused in every which way, the 5 were led out into the middle of a snowy snowy white field, where they were then executed with a gunshot to the back of the head. The sound of the policeman's voice is burned into my head as he spoke of arriving at the crime scene, finding the victims' blood around their heads' soaked & melted into the clean white snow, and where it stopped flowing because it had frozen in time--like a flattened red icicle.

Someone has shot me, long ago...and I cannot wash away the blood due to winter storm conditions, all that shit...blood, sadness, guts, sin, brains, feelings, they are all frozen in the snow that is falling right now -- 6-12 inches is expected tonite.