Did a few hours of diary-digging yesterday. Always a source for great amusement to study the product of one’s own imagination. I found this note in one of my old notepads, and thought I would spend a few lines to show off with my weirdity.

“The sheep have crossed over, all floating around like white woollen question marks on the surface. How do they keep warm? Sheep and ice cubes, fighting for their pathetic lives in a cup of cold tea. They breathe without sound, but their language is less graceful than words uttered by a dying crow in the claws of a tomcat. The sheep are tired; their minds mellow and filled to the rim with fog, their eyes portray the perfect picture of innocence, mixed with a solid amount of stupidity. I have come to wonder; where do these peculiar beings keep their dead? None to be seen six feet under…”

-Oh, and I wouldn’t try to interpret it. Knowing myself, and the way my head worked at the time this obscurity was produced, I doubt that there’s any meaning to it.