from the vault march eighth two thousand and six entry number one one two zero three nine

Woke up this morning to find myself in a bed positioned on the floor in an apartment in Brooklyn New York. Got up to use the bathroom and found two people named m. and b. sleeping on an inflatable mattress in the living room area. Returned to bed and began making this entry for future record keeping purposes. Have not been able to locate reason why this journal entry exists, who is motivated to write down what they think they are doing, never an indication of what they have done or will be doing. A notebook lends itself to automatic writing as a painter, such as Degas does a study of a ballerina in charcoal, or makes line drawings of the world collapsing before he goes ahead and purchases the paint. Of course I don't mean to indicate that I am a painter but more along the lines that I went to a museum yesterday with my two guests, and had a lovely time, but for some reason by the time it was all over my body and mind had completely left as soon as I sat down. The pressing needs of my hidden physicality weighs heavy or the fluid that keep me alive is slowly draining out into the general working of the universe for no particular reason other than time and gravity, the wonders of osmosis and the principle of searching for new space.