I found this, something I wrote during the worst of my madness (about here), and yet, it seems not mad at all. See what you think:
"Clyde"
Fireside chat with my buddy Clyde. He’s a harmonica. I set him down by the ashtray every night around seven or eight and just talk, y’know, what’s happening here and there, how’s the weather, that sort of thing. I know Clyde hears it, you see, it’s all stored up in those little holes of his, coming out as sweet blues when I put him to my mouth and blow.
The strange thing about it is that it's not strange at all, n'est-ce pas?
TS
6:58am tuesday, 11th june
yes, it is strange! VERY STRANGE! And i don't see how this is not strange... what you mean with that?
Stand
5:04pm tuesday, 11th june
I consider it kinda literary in nature, not strange.
Andrew
3:31pm thursday, 30th january
I do the same thing except with everything in my room. I make them out to be my friends because they will always be around to help me out, to just listen to what i have to say because i wont tell anyone else, not even my father. I also hear what they say and they tell me the things i need to hear. such as your a nice person andy, and they give me advice to questions that i have.
TS
Stand