Whenever I sit down to write, the first words out of my fingers are: I have nothing left for you. I don't know what to say.

But there are always things to say. I think: if I were in jail, never to have another new experience, can I draw on what I've seen, felt, touched, smelled? Haven't I lived enough for an entire world of blog entries? After all, it's just a fucking blog. The word isn't even pretty. The word is a joke.

Nobody reads anymore anyway. Nobody cares.

Don't argue.

Words are everything to me. I absorb them and I digest them. I swirl them around my mouth. I spit them in the sink. I cock my head and I chew on each syllable. But I can't explain it. I wish it weren't that way. I wish my addiction was easier to explain.

I know I sound like an ass. They're words after all. The only meanings they have are the ones I assign to them.

So I won't assign meaning to them.

From now on words are noise.