I did try. But I still don't have a hand-made book, nor the means to make one. This'll do for now. I have to write.

A few days ago I saw The Sweet Hereafter. It was one of two films I've seen which made me flinch (the other: Spun). I hope to never make a film so God awful. It fancies itself compelling, but it's simply a string of reckless, empty gestures -- a"veneer of depth", as someone on IMDB noted. And the most appalling thing is it's all the critics' darling. Those idiot critics.

I didn't do much today. I went out and bought apples and peanut butter, rented my storage space, and then wasted my time on this computer. I was marginally productive: I completed my friends' haunted pines.com, and mocked up my future album, above. Recorded a few tracks, that's about it.

A nap and a frozen spinach pizza away I was at a party. I was dissapointed quickly. I'm not sure why I expect more, I can usually count on it. "You look like you're not having a good time," she rather daftly smiled, with perfumed breath. That's what you risk in sobriety I guess. I don't mind drinking. I do mind congregated drunks who do nothing else. Partly spiteful, because I partly am. You can't understand sobriety if you've never practiced it to begin with. It sounds elitist, but it's entirely not.

I think instead of a hand-made book I wish to get a manual typewriter. I have no penmanship, and writing tires my hand.