Sick. That was how I had been for the past week. A dark cloud that had been hanging over my head seemed to have dissipated.

There are many things to be done but I am too inert and distracted.

There are thoughts that are better kept to myself.

I had been thinking of the different phases of the past; strangely, in terms of taste:

Time spent studying at LaSalle. Days spent working at Cyberian. UO days at Shaw Tower. Army days. Months spent rotting at home.

Smell, and taste.

I want to learn to cook.

I want to be a simple, domesticated man equally capable of taking care of a screaming baby and swinging a big stick.

Unfortunately, work is paying peanuts.

I miss squeezing off rounds at the firing range.. the smack of the recoil from the rifle butt, the vibration of the sonic boom and the whistling grass; the satisfaction of watching the target go down.

I like living.

But the fear of death might be something to be conquered.