It’s twelve past midnight, but I feel the need to write. That’s it, no greater explanation. Just the need. I don’t know why I have this need, whether it’s to express something, to get something out of me, or the complete opposite – the need to desperately claw something back. Do I write to fill the void? Maybe. All I know is that bed calls, but something unnamed calls more loudly. Keeps me from those dreams that may come and calls me instead to put pen to paper, or rather, soothe myself with that familiar monotony of fingertips over keyboard. All the letters are there laid out in front me. They demand form. But what? What structure can I give that would make any sense, provide any worthwhile meaning? Am I powerless to convey; fit only to project? I have no message, no moral, but maybe somewhere in the muddle there, there is me. This I hope at least. And so I write. No code, but still the truth lies locked away. It eludes. What am I then? A creature possesed with words, thoughts and feelings? Or maybe thoughts, feelings and words? How shall I be governed? Oh how shall I be free? I write to unburden myself; I write to burden. I write to relieve the pain; I write to relive it. I am a contradiciton. I am a human. I am fiend, no less a friend. I am lost. Will I ever be found? Do I express anything? Do I wish to? I think I do. I use words then, having nothing else. But do they express me? Am I expressed by them -this jumble of letters and characters, these random symbols? Does an exclamation mark convey my true anger or my wonderment, will a question mark ever be ample enough to contain my full unease? It’s long gone twelve past midnight and I have written. I have written words, I know not what they mean.