Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
Sixty-fourth Entry. Sober indulgence.
08-12-2003 | 2:56 p.m.

My room is the screeching sound of sobriety. The lines are sharp and clean. Every item belts out the ballad of purpose. Not a single structure or object of ostentatious display exists save for the white trim about two windows, a closet-the sliding doors also white-and the entrance door. Somehow, though, the white seems necessary, accentuating the blue of the walls and ceiling with striking contrast and making the walls vanish, becoming the limitless expanse of the overhead sky. The floor seems to not exist; the bed floats freely in the center and everything grows outwardly from it as if held in place by the simple will of essentiality over luxury. And while the art of decoration appears to be lost, it is only because I am not present, for when I stand in my room it is decoration's final form perfected to a science so tedious as to disallow a single particle of dust to be out of place.

A single form of sensuality comes in clear after a second's inspection. A blatant contradiction not begging to be hidden or explained. On the dresser stands a television-fitting that it only gets three channels-a Playstation 2 turned on its side to stand tall, and to the side of it....paradox. An empty bottle of vodka. Its glass frosted and adorned with much formal design proclaiming its extravagance. The smooth, gradual curves finding no companion anywhere else in the room save for the sparse extensions of other items-the legs of a chair, the downward curves of the blinds, partially melted candles. The bottle seems as though to be placed there by another. As though planted to corrupt the overall theme, a subtle lie-white and pretty-in a world of painful truth-black and repellent. In that brief instant, their is but a shiver in the spine as one realizes that, yes, it was put there by someone else, but it belongs there. It needs to be there. It is mine, perhaps from a different room, a world somewhere outside my own, but the bottle is mine all the same. A spark of the world surrounding, a glimpse at the wars inside myself. The one item in my entire room that is true indulgence and inebriation screams abstinence the loudest.

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And that's that.
Referenced #2
To write them.
Heart vs mind.