Friday, 12 November 2010

Journal: YC112.11.13

Spent some time on the shooting range today.  My arms are killing me. The target looked like a whole platoon had aimed suppressing fire at it. I only stopped because suddenly my trigger finger was too weak to keep firing.

I was thinking, the whole time. About... purpose.

And I realised, I don't have one. Not a real one. Not one that has any substance beyond making money. I'm drifting, letting things happen to me rather than causing them to happen.

...I kind of enjoy it.

Save. End.

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