Hey.

Hey. It was a blog of blogs. It was the best of blogs, and the worst of blogs. A blog for blogging. A tin cup for the heady ounces of meaning I dripped with this morning, walking in a T-storm thinking of crying like the rain. Lightning, mine. Its crack a defining sound of my persona, like electrical heat mixed with shuddering orgasms. I love blogs. I'm a blog person. Big blogger. Blog.

But there is something about the sound of blog I question.The meaning, I know. But what is the sound it makes when it leaves your lips about? Is it a sound about relaxing, a sound about conversing? Is there a sound which leaves your mouth that mean the same as blog and is it dog? Is it rawr? What is the homophone of blog besides of course, blogue, the forgotten medium of expression popular in Roman times. The tablets of Blogues and their inevitable destruction of the Roman civilization is alternate history 101. There are certain times in the history of man that you must know things almost went very differently. As a throwback to those times, you must happily imagine just what exactly could have gone wrong.

If you examine the word blog you find it's an onomatopoeia for a burp. This has slipped under the conscious radar of the Western world completely, a serious misstep in our conditioning to the technological singularity. Because it does feel like a burp. I admit, it feels like burping, writing these points down and posting them online. It feels like a great let down. It feels like relaxing, and, wait, isn't that exactly what blog means? Because the laughing l followed by a great -og does give you a certain amount of comfort. It's a word of the future, a smart word designed to lighten the load of our conscious lives. It's a word that bears repeating, because, well, everybody has a blog and you can't say one blog is the only serious blog. There are serious blogs everywhere. This is a serious blog.

There is a death about me I cannot stand. I want desperately to live and love and there is a death about me I cannot stand. I don't want to reveal its meaning or its effect on me. If I told you how I feel, I might die. It is a very hard thing to express something that could kill you in expressing it wrong. It is an emotion that is life-long and powerful. It lasts forever, really, a feeling of such strength that in expressing it or revealing it you might kill yourself, indirectly kill yourself, get murdered, or otherwise die. But there is a special meaning to this feeling I must only express on the day that I die. It is that I will never express it. I am so averse to this feeling, and so much do I want it to go, that I avow, as a man of sexual maturity and fitness, to never, ever, express that feeling which I must die from expressing. Because I do want to live forever and I don't think anything that must kill me is worth knowing.

But it must be completely forgotten, even that I might die.

Do you see the pattern?

It is death.