June 8th, 1991 -

The weather is a replication of our thoughts. The happiness is possible, iminent, I love you Amber.

It's starting again. There were a dozen today and soon there will be more.

They're called miller moths because of the dust that covers them. The millers would return home at night covered in a dusting of flower, now there aren't really any millers. Machines do this. All these neighborhoods will dry up in the future, they're too expensive to maintain. Machines took the jobs that used to require hands, and soon they will take jobs that require brains. We'll make machines to consume the things that machines make and we won't be required anymore.

When I was six I woke up and felt something between my fingers, I rubbed it and squeezed it and didn't see that it was a dead moth until I woke up. I remember remembering what it was like to be six. I remember the magic bag in the closet and the ghost in the concrete room in the basement. I wouldn't go there again anyway, not even now. And I don't believe in ghosts. The life of a moth is like those memories. They whisper through the chilly dry air.

Every year they fly from the plains into the mountains to feast on wild flowers - their quest... they go and they return. I want to go somewhere far away - I want to see something amazing and do something amazing, things that everyone else wouldn't even believe. And I want to come back, like Gilgamesh. I want to be immortal.

I often have a dream that I'm deaf and mute and kept in a small room far away from everyone else where I hallucinate that a large creature on the wall with large tentacles is flailing madly at me. I desire to be sick and to be taken care of. I think a little madness is the right way, the right escape from responsibility, it's like a super power. This is what it's like to be an Indigo, ha, someone told me that's what I was. What a curse!

The moths are attracted to lights. They burn themselves and fall in piles. I have been placing the well preserved specimens into a box with cotton to keep them protected. I place the singed ones into another container. The moths leave a black fluid in spots. It's like smears of snot. Amber said you could eat it and you would see the moon.

Amber Amber I'm almost sure I'm in love with Amber - she named herself, her real name is Lillith but she liked the color. I love almost everything about her, her mind explodes - her smell, her charm, her wit and her cunning. I think of her every second of every day - I want to be with her. I imagine me and her doing things together, the sound of her laugh. I picture her face, I love her. If soulmates exist then I think I've found mine. I hope she likes techno... :-)

The moths attraction to light is a mystery, but I have seen a pattern. The power lines which feed the lights are multiplying in the plains. In the night breezes you can hear them whistle. At the end of the road is a church. It's full of moon faced little haters... they stink and I think it would be funny to chop off their fingers and watch them squeal.

My collection is growing. The moths are now dying in great piles. School was cancelled because when they turned on the air conditioner moth parts flew out and clogged the filters. Lilly was there and she laughed at me when I freaked out over a moth in my shirt. Then everyone else laughed at me... that's the nightmare.

My Mother won't leave the house anymore. It's the sound of the wind, and she doesn't drive, but the moths are too much for her, and so she stays home and talks to people on the phone, and something is different this year. There are more of them.

The telephone in my house has a crossed connection. I get phone calls and when I answer the phone I can hear the conversations of strangers. It's a retarded couple. Their hearts are true and they're in love and it's beautiful, how much in love in love they are. They coo to each other and they cuddle up and it's like a rainbow of warmth and that's all I want. I want to love... i want to be happy and ambitious and free & nice & good & ignorant.... everyone abandoned me.... i have small stupid pleasures,... my so called hobbies & doings.... those are all thats left for me.

Trigger is a 911 operator. We met on a BBS, he works in the East and said that things were getting quite bad. The sky was black, the moths piled up in doors. I thought maybe Trigger wanted to fuck me because he sounded gay but he was also nice and I thought that maybe it was me that was the bad person for thinking such things.

My moth collection is too big. People should see this work that I've done, it is beautiful and amazing but I know that nobody will and they don't deserve to anyway. The light I feel in my heart is stuck and I want to give it all to Amber but I know that if I do it will just scare her so it's better that I save my love for someone who deserves it anyway but there's nobody out there for that. I love her. I heard her talking to Matt, jock asshole, she was talking about the flickering lights of shadows in a cave and how if we were stuck there and that's all we knew we might mistake the shadows for the real thing. And I wanted to be able to talk about things like that but when I open my mouth all that comes out are farting frog sounds.

And the sky separated from blackness and from the blackness ashes and from the ashes moths. Fuck fuck. I'm surrounded by assholes trying to stuff Jesus down my throat. I'm going to hell anyway, maybe I should deserve it.

I remember the first time sperm came out when I masturbated. There was snow on the ground and everything became magical. They talked about that in school like it was a disease. I was still surprised though when it actually happened. Now I do it too much. Im forever sorry, infinitely, about the pornos. My humanity has a foot fetish, & bondage exteme liking. i try to thwart it, sometimes to no effect, Yet the masturbation has to stop. I'm sorry Always. I feel the happiness here, thinking of her, for brief moments. Thats how i know the everything is true.

Today we got stuck in traffic on the way to the mall. There was an accident and when we opened the car door a moth got inside. We didn't want to kill it because they're messy and it flew around inside, flapping against the glass. Finally someone came along and told us we had to hide because a tornado was coming. The air changed and a siren went off. Everyone was running from their cars and falling over into ditches. The tornado swept over us and left piles of wood and strips of waving silver. This was my dream.

Today I told Amber that I want to be her boyfriend. I said it just like that. My frog voice, my frog throat. There are kings of frogs in the reeds but the one I have is just a sad toad.

Today I threw my B grade moths out into the back yard. I'm keeping the ones that are nice, but the singed ones will never be worth anything. There are too many. I can hear them at night, like whispers.

The power went out today in the lightning storm. The moths left us alone for a little while. They can love, why can't i? The true existence lives in solitude, always aware, always infinite, always, looking, for, his love. Peace might be the ultimate destination... destination unknown... i want happiness. Abandonment is present for the martyr. my thoughts exist in, want to exist live in. I want to find a room in the great hall and stay there with my love forever. sadness seems infinite, & the shell of happiness shines around. Yet the true despair overcomes it this lifetime. How tragic too my

FUCKIN DUMASS SHITHEAD I HATE SHIT motherfuckin goddam piece of death thought and nothin FUCK FUCK FUCK!

Some of the moths in my collection are becoming spongy, they're starting to grow some bits of furry stuff. It looks like mold but smaller. I'm not sure if I should throw them out. I thought I should taste one and then stuff my body full of them. Maybe the poison would grow inside me too and I would become powerful, and then I could do the thing I know that I will have to do.

The meanest trick was played on me - a fake love... She in reality doesn't give a good fuck about me... doesn't even know me..... I have no happiness, no ambitions, no friends, & no LOVE!!! [Edited] can get me that gun I hope, I wanna use it on a poor S.O.B.

They're installing some new telephone poles in the field near my house it looks like, some small ones, in patches. Some dickwad told me to stop fucking with the electrical box. I just wanted to see the lights too. I want to see the light that the moth sees. It must be beautiful.

The sun didn't even come out today. The telephone poles are growing in the basement where my moths were. I hate everything. why can't I die... not fair. I want pure bliss... to be cuddling with Amber, who i think i love deeper than ever... I was hollow, thought I was right. Another form of the Downward Spiral... deeper & deeper it goes. to cuddle w. her, to be one w. her, to love; just laying there. I need a gun. This is a wierd entry... I should feel happy. The neighbors have left. I haven't even seen my Mom.

Existence..... what a strange word. He, set out by determination & curiosity, knows no existence, knows nothing realevent to himself. The petty destinations of others & everything on this world, in this world, he knows the answers to. Yet they have no purpose to him. He seeks knowledge of the unthinkable, of the indefineable, of the unknown. He explores the everything...using his mind, the most powerful tool known to him. Not a physical barrier blocking the limits of exploration, time thru thought thru dimensions.... the everything is his realm. Yet, the more he thinks, hoping to find answers to his questions, the more come up. Amazingly, the petty things mean much to him at this time, how he wants to be normal, not this transceiver of the everything. Then, ocuring to him, the answer. How everything is connected yet seperate. By experiencing the petty others' actions, reactions, emotions, doings, [scribble] and thoughts, he gets a mental picture of what, in his mind, is a cycle. Existence is a great hall, life is one of the [scribble] rooms, death is passing thru the doors, & the ever-existant compulsion of everything is the curiosity to keep moving down the hall, thru the doors, exploring rooms, down this never-ending hall. Questions make answers, answers conceive questions, and at long last he is content.