. . a n a d a 1 1 6 0 8 - 0 4 - 0 0 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "Ingredients" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Effy . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . All that's visible is this simple, white screen. Audible background of deep, moody bliss. A canvas representing the creation of infinite dreams, visions, words... there's so many words, and endless combinations of them. Overwhelming, it's inhibiting. What was created, hand-picked out of the universe... what was the most complex itself created inhibitions for its creators. Still here, still there. Still looking at something I can touch, but what is tangible is not a product of my own mind... it's only glass. Night smiling through the crack of the window. This is the time it allows me. I turn feelings into thoughts, thoughts into words, words into phrases, and phrases into things I tell the world around me. In return to what the night provides, I have much to give. Every tree, the dumpster, the lawn, the broken glass on the pavement, encompassed by cool air laid back against the colorless sky... it all contributes to each flicker of inspiration, and is a common entrepeneur of motivation. Can't motivate myself. Not anymore. It's like a drug, the night... a helpless addiction. But day is just a disease. The drug is the cure. Seize the day, says the night. Their battle continues. Night cures the day, I cure the night. The "deep, moody bliss" of music is a medicine man standing in the corner of my room. He works his magick when I tell him to, and when I am temporarily cured, he stops knowingly. It only reaches a certain tolerance of almost-constance, but withdrawl is not incessant. It creates a deep shade of depression that the night could never cure like the day. . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . anada 116 by Effy (c)2000 anada e'zine . . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .