July 10
Dear diary, I know not what these journal entries do to me, but I'm still writing them, right now, when it's the dead of night fallen all over, and I must be sleeping. I hear no sound of human existence, but of the ceiling fan and of rain, at my window- O' how lonely and long loved it seems, echoing in the hollows of the night. I know it's near to pathetic fallacy, where I project my emotions upon the rain, but it works, each time. What more could delusion ever do but circumscribe a part of reality more pleasant to look at than the other? It's alright, to be solaced in your imagination, when your eyes are tired of the world view, like the snow falling and falling covers up the streetlight and hazes the picture seen. Foggy car windows, and clouded moonlight offer a partly hidden, less wide panorama but yet beautiful, isn't it? And how beautifully the clouds disperse, and the mist fades bringing out a bright moon, like a dream coming true. The ends of the rainbow...