There are certain days when I'm not myself; I am him in those days, wise and detached, alien to their human and full of a self esteem that is not mine. Those are my best days. As a little boy I had nodreams and no thoughts of tomorrow, just visions of blank white boards, a white piece of chalk and aleaky roof. Those days are gone.How did I become this man? I often ask; a lover of words and naked flesh, hater of some unknownby most, humility's son too quick to boast. I guess I'll never know. But I do Know that I am notmyself, for who I am cannot be this; thoughtful, unassuming and slow to speak. And for this reasononly, I make this entry, for lately silence has become my vice. These words are not mine, they aremy man's, and I the boy may not decipher.Do you ever think about what life would look like at the bottom of the lagoon? I do, every time I crossthe bridge. I also think about the stars, and what they would look like up-close. But lately mythoughts are filled with women, black naked women with breasts the size of lemons and plum applebums; soft to squeeze and beautiful to hold.