(by a mannequin in an abandoned warehouse)
Today started out the same as always. A desire to write a letter. But it's too draining to write a proper letter. The normal approach of reciting events and inquiring of the other is too taxing. I've lost the talent for that, and I don't live in the moving world of very much happening. Nothing to report. And of course, who would understand the strange thoughts that lie behind my unwritten words? There is no one to write a letter to anyway. It's also quite a struggle for a mannequin to locate a sheet of paper and then try to move a pen in his hand.
This grief of being, this sense of impending catastrophe -- I would sweat, I would shout if I could. But I'm feeling too wooden. At least this drifting dust here is toxic. Sometimes hallucinatory. The other ones -- easy breathers -- call it time. But I see particulates floating as ennui and opiate. The moments drift in pieces of dim light, and they fall all over me, cover my head. Make me drowsy with a thousand worlds of deep yet ambiguous longing. This dust brings on visions.
I read a lot. But it always makes me want to be a famous writer! No one has ever published a mannequin. Fate has something else planned. It feels like I am destined to always consider how it must be to be. Someone has to do it. Why not me? And someone has to keep their lips sealed. So mysterious fogs can form without displacement of sound and opinion. Yes...I think I do have a role to play here. Every day I must study the shape of fog and all the memories of questions it holds. It flows around me all the time. Ha -- "time." I never got the hang of that.
Sometimes I see so far away. Lands filled with gestures of eyes and limbs in motion. But usually, just like today, I see only the absence of understanding.
It's humid and damp with so much dreaming in this warehouse. By golly...I do believe my left knee and my right thumb are decaying! If my head begins to rot, I won't be able to think of anything else to write you, dearest Diary.