Friday, 25 June 2004


I can’t find my pen.

And if I did find it the ink probably would have run out.

And the paper that I went to write on would be all screwed up.

No doubt that my hand is too shaky today.

It would be illegible.



I have no grasp of the foundations of language.

There is no way into what I feel.

What’s the word? Come on…

What was I going to say?

It's on the tip of my tongue.

There is no way into what I feel.

There may be a way out.

Writing is an exit wound.

At a distance greater than 1.5 - 3.5 feet: This is too far for either soot or burning propellant to travel, so the wound margins are clean, with neither fouling nor stippling. Classically, the entrance wound has a rim of abrasion surrounding the wound, because the projectile "drags" the surrounding skin into the wound a bit, abrading it along the way. The exit wound lacks this abrasion, unless the victim was braced against a wall or other solid object that may secondarily abrade the margin of the exit wound as the projectile penetrates the skin and pushes it into the wall.

Backs to the wall, then.

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