,            ____,         (                     21/10/01  anada454  ,
   / \  ,_____  (--|_\_,,_, _  _| _    __________ ,-.______ _,---._ __ _/ \
  /   \+------    _|  ) | |(_|(_|(_|_  .net------/  )----.-'       `./-/   \
 /    /          (        |__,                  (  (   ,'            `/    /|
 \   /                                           \  `-"             \'\   / |
  \ /      "Yet Another Late Night Textfile"      `.              ,  \ \ /  |
   Y--------                             ----------/`.          ,'-`----Y   |
  /                 by The Corpse                 (            ; mEoW!@/|   '
 i________________________________________________|  ,-.    ,-'_______/ |  /
   |                                              |  | (   *            | /
   |____________________ Anada is cat-friendly! __)  |__\  `.___________|/
                                                  `--'   `--'

        It seems that since I graduated from college, all the textfiles I've
 written have been produced fairly late.  Late, in this case, is around 2 AM,
 which used to be early; now that I've got a regular job and fewer co-
 conspirators to indulge my craving for intellectual conversation, though,
 2 AM seems a bit late.  Nevertheless, here I am, typing away and ruminating
 on exactly why I write textfiles.

        Bypassing some of the core reasons for my attraction to the .txt
 format, I'll immediately address what I believe is the reason I write
 textfiles.  It's a two-faceted motivation, you might say.  One one side of
 the coin, I write textfiles because I need to write, and textfiles give me a
 break from the novel I'm working on.  Yes, I'm writing a novel, as
 pretentious as it may sound, and yes, it can get tiresome.  Textfiles let me
 write about different things.

        On the other hand, I write textfiles because they are amazingly
 cathartic.  There it is again- the stench of pretentiousness, real or
 imagined.  But I don't care, because I need to get some of this shit out, no
 matter how absurd it is.  My life, if one looks at the colossal engine of
 the cosmos, is a single tooth in a tiny wheel, but on the microcosmic level,
 it's pretty damned important.  I have things to say and I want to say them.
 If I don't, my brain and soul will atrophy and twist in on themselves,
 turning me into the equivalent of a blind subterranean beast with
 luminescent eyes, stunted optic nerves, and an unreasoned urge to grope
 blindly in darkness.  All right, so it might not be that bad, but hell, I
 don't want to let my creative ichors remain bottled up.

        Good God.  This is what happens when my life seems to be closing in
 on me.  I ramble over the keyboard, saying hardly anything, smoking too many
 cigarettes, dreaming about Antarctica, and generally making a wreck of
 myself.  I think that

 THIS

 is where
 it all should end.

 Good night, world. It's time for me to go to sleep after I listen to

 one last Cathedral song:

 "Astral
 Queen."

 Forgive my intrusion into your mindspace.

 It truly ends

                          h e r e.

 /\___/\ ____________________________________________________________ /\___/\
 \ -.- /                                                              \ -.- /
 `-.^.-' (c) 2001 Anada e'zine                          by The Corpse `-.^.-'
   /"\ ________________________________________________________________ /"\