La-di-da, la-di-da, la la.

Annie Hall. I never got over Woody Allen's prima facie story of Everyman's desperate attempts to find meaning in absurd, emotionally-overwhelming and beautiful relationships. I could see this any time of the year, any time of the month, any time of the day and still be satisfied with where my life is heading. Tough call, really.

Where does a body end?

I have been listening to a lot of Swans' work lately. Michael Gira's voice has started to grow on me a little. Besides, they are formidable in their approach to the post-industrial/noise scene.

Conclusionae.

Okay. Manipal it is. Four years. Hmm. Good, good.

Snap! And you're mine.

Michellia - Too many rocks in my pockets. If it weren't for these, I might have flown away to the moon.

Ayan - I wish the force of gravity was not so indiscriminating.

Michellia - You don't get the point, do you? These people are crazy. They are not allowing me to be myself. Strangling what's left of my manic creativity. I never wanted to front this girl-next-door image. Whenever I do that, these bastards make it a point to wallop it, till all that's left of is a light sepia longing.

Ayan - Good, good. Let me eat my cheeseburger in peace.

Michellia - Sonuvabitch!