So now that I have this intraweb diary, I have almost no idea what to write on it. I don't even know if I want to care about proper spelling (no one else really seems to mind much) or punctuation (not many of you would even notice improper p, I'm convinced); I must though, as all but the occasional lapse will sour my soul.
I've hemmed and hawed about entry number 2 for days. As I had no purpose in creating this web diary except to reply to Palinode, it lacked purpose; I lacked purpose. But no more. I am going to babble at you (don't worry, I will delete the worst of it before you even see it) until purpose develops; I purpose to find purpose.
I now hate the word "purpose". Immensely. I would delete all uses and mentions of it above, except that I wish to preserve the reason why I hate it so.
Lately my remembrances of my dreams have been extraordinarily brief. Not just brief by my usual standards (I have had my share of epic dreams, one of which I am still working on turning into a novel), but damn near Hegelian sense-certainty brief. Last night I dreamt that I was running. I have no idea where I was, what the light was like, what I was wearing, whether fast or slow, hot or cold, fatigued or exhilarated. Just running. Yesterday if you asked me in the morning what I dreamt, I would have told you that I was holding something orange. No idea what or where, etc. It is very hard to realize that you are lucid dreaming when your recollection amounts to doodly-squat.