Lover, sweet lover, it has dawn on me this very hour, that it has been almost a month since I last saw the sun, and longer still, since you bid me farewell. I am of coarse draping your parting in a lulling light. For in truth, you said nothing at all.

            You left me the same way you found me; lying on my back, in my sordid bed, you sitting rigidly on my beds edge, looking up at my ceiling; keeping our eyes from awkwardly looking at a one another, as to not regret the ‘happening’ more so then we did: With my burning cigarette like a chimneys, and my clothing, long unworn and forgotten.

            To this day, I still do not know why we did not introduces one another with our real names, but I guess at the time, and for the wished purpose, bynames worked equally well. And in this tradition I shall still refer to myself as Marcel, and you, sweet diary, I shall call you my dearest lover. 

            For such stories I have already whispered into your blank sheet, that you might as well be called such a thing.

I hate my job. And as equally as I know that fact, I know how like a cliché it sounds. For in truth, there are worst jobs in existence. Crash-test-dummy immediately comes to mind, followed closely by anyone whose has ever been paid to box a kangaroo, or a street mime, and I have not worked these jobs yet, so perhaps they are worse then mine, nor do I think latter can be made into an actual career.      

            But to me, and from me, all that is me, meaning all I have worked and have done before now. If all of my life is to be measured somehow, it would all come back to me dulling job.

            I can not leave, for there is no one to replace me, I can not merely wish to stay, for I would then have to be called a madman. so I am left in this dullness.

And from this bitter boredom, I have decided to document my all my odd happenings from my conversations with crazed crack whores, to my daily work related extremes.