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Pretty Boy Floyd   
03:01pm 24/12/2004
 

Why do you come here
When you know it makes things hard for me ?
When you know, oh
Why do you come ?
It was because
Everything that I did
I wrote it down
On the wall

You had to sneak into my room
’just’ to read my diary
Oh, it was just to see, just to see
(all the things you knew I’d written about you...)
And oh so many illustrations
Oh, but
I’m so very sickened
Oh, I am so sickened now

 
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i'm just trying to make sense of you in that wheelchair   
04:31pm 08/09/2004
   
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"yeah i better you big fucking carrot"   
02:14am 29/07/2004
 
mood: dirty
1. "You know what you can buy with four dollars these days? Not even three dollars."—Saturday Night Fever
2. "Fuck off for sure, like totally."—Valley Girl
3. "Hey Rock, how much did you clear for your last fight? Did you ever think about investing in condominiums?" "I never use ’em."—Rocky 2
4. "I think in all fairness, I should tell you exactly it is that I do. For instance in the morning I’ll get up take a walk down to the bank. And if you don’t have my money, I’ll split your head open. Just about the time your coming out of your coma, I’ll be coming out of jail. And guess what. I’ll split your fucking head open again. Because I’m stupid."—Casino
5. "I owe money to everybody in this town. So I can’t borrow money from nobody anymore, except you. ’Cause you’re the only jerk off I can borrow money without paying you back. ’Cause that’s what I think of you, a jerk off. You’re smiling ’cause you’re a jerk off."—Mean Streets
 
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Bradbury   
03:57pm 26/04/2004
 
mood: contemplative
From this outer edge of his life, looking back, there was only one remorse, and that was only that he wished to go on living. Did all dying people feel this way, as if they had never lived? Did life seem that short, indeed, over and done before you took a breath? Did it seem abrupt and impossible to everyone, or only to himself, here, now, with a few hours left to him for thought and deliberation?

He was being mean. He felt the meaness, the senseless meanless of dying. He had been hurt, now he wanted to hurt another. Time and space both wounded him.

"When anythings over, its just like it never happened. Where's your life any better than mine, now? Now is what counts. Is it any better? Is it?"

"Yes, its better!"

"How!"

"Because I got my thoughts, I remember!" cried Lespere, far away, indignant, holding his memories to his chest with both hands.

And he was right. With a feeling of cold water rushing through his head and body. I knew he was right. There were differences between memories and dreams. I had only dreams of things I had wanted to do, while Lespere had memories of things done and accomplished. And this knowledge began to pull me apart, with a slow, quivering precision.

Now I was trying to pack a lifetime of suppresed emotion into an interval of minutes.

But aren't we all equal? I wondered. Him and I? Here, now? If a things over, it's done, and what good is it? You die anyway. But he knew he was rationalizing, for it was like trying to tell the difference between a live man and a corpse. There was a spark in one, and not in the other-an aura, a mysterious element.

He had lived a good, full life, and near death, it made him a different man now, and I, had been as good as dead for many years. They came to death by separate paths and, in all likelihood, if there were kinds of death, their kinds would be as different as night form day. The quality of death, like that of life, must be of an infinite variety, and if one has already died once, then what was there to look for in dying for good and all, as he was now?

And I? What can I do? Is there anything I can do now to make up for a terrible and empty life? If only I could do one good thing to make up for the meanness I collected all these years and didn't even know it was in me. But theres no one here but myself, and how can you do good all alone? You can't.
 
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