As I looked outside the window today, it was with a sense of disappointment that I realized that I cannot achieve immortality with words. "The children are all insane / Waiting for the summer rain", "And if my thought-dreams could be seen /
They'd probably put my head in a guillotine / But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only", "Help me find my proper place / Because I'm falling out of grace", I can't hope to write anything like that. I look up to them, seek inspiration from them, but alas, it is depressing when everytime you find yourself falling short! I suppose that when you look at greater minds than yours, you realize how small you really are. In many ways, I guess I am but a shallow reflection of these greater writers, consciously or not using their techniques to try to give words to my ideas. I suppose it is a long struggle ahead, but at least one day I would like to write something really resonant which I can look at sometime in the future and just sigh with satisfaction.

Yes, I don't know what I would have given to write any of those lines. My right arm, perhaps!? Perhaps it's just the weather - the rain has always brought out the brooding artistic part of me - but right now I feel like I ought to leave my mark on this world using the power of the word. It may well be the only real way that we can become immortal, and maybe it's the answer to all the questions I've had about my worries about the pointlessness of it all? Then again, there is no universal panacea, but I'm one of the hazy half-asleep states right now, where my idealism seems to know no bounds.

I think part of the problem is that Jim Morrison. As I predicted a month or so ago, it seems like I'm having that period where I am getting taken with this image I have somehow created of him as a dark, brooding poet, the kind that I guess fascinates me. Plus, that deep voice, ooh now that can send chills down your spine. I can see the similarity to Nick Cave, actually. Anyway, it looks like I'll be spending this summer swooning over Crystal Ship.

Speaking of Morrison, of all people Amma said she played The Doors at full volume in her room when she was 16. For some reason, it strikes me as a very...how to explain it? No, impossible, I can't explain, suffice to say it's a remark I think I shall remember for a while now. Maybe someday I can tell youngsters of the time I played Black Dog on a cold winter morning?