Strange things come to me on the internet. For instance, let's examine this line in my website's error-log:

[Sun Mar 10 01:31:13 2002] [client 24.169.217.148] File does not exist: /home/~rosso/dork.html

Who the hell was looking for this page... and why? At what point do log entries become insults?

Of course the Nick Cave related e-mails are always the most strange. I won't bore you with the whole thing (I'll put it in the Read More text.) Here's one of the best lines:

But what is a chance and choice in a man's life? And does it worth chasing persistently the firebird in hope to catch it?

I can't make this stuff up...

Mr. Nick Cave

Pain throbs in the temples - a dull, irretrievable pain of powerlessness. The depressing impossibility of changing something around and - which is more terrible - inside - angers and retards, makes the hands fling up and drop them - hopelessly and sluggishly. There are only a horrible headiness, mocking phantoms of the unrealized hopes; dry flowers, rusted, unnecessary for me - formerly and never - rings of love; the shadows of crystalline dreams, torn by the grey dogs of usual life, trampled by me with the tears of a masochistic attack. I'm nobody already, a decay, an aura of anger, a cry to the God, whom I can't make me hear any more, a taste of a lamp in a thjroat, a smell of ashes, ashes of dust. Where is the self of mine, where am I myself? After which turn of the mysterious and frantic soul of mine have I been confined?

Why am I telling you all these? I don't know and don't want to. It's an unpardonable stupidity - to explain yoursefl - a fruitless waste of time.

Restrain my decadence, help me to find my heart (I feel - it's beating somewhere still) - after all, you've managed to fill my mind with smoke...

Tell me, why and what for so painfully, noisily I'm looking the loneliness in commonness and God - in myself? Tell me, why there is so much cheerfulness in your embroidered verses, and emptiness and salt of temptation - in mine? All my life is a beautiful curse, and my soul is tortured in the backgrounds of existence - the most pitiful demons, pulling into the tiny - for strength in their Faith - and for me - impassable abysses of pride.

I don't know myself, then how can I know you? Words are empty, they're only dust of my thoughts. You feel in some other way and, to my mind, you won't understand me. Closed in myself, I live only by spirit and expectation, denying myself with loathing from the reality, as if I have to dare and intrude into it.

Tell me, if the dreams can come true, and why the saint wings of soul can be bought for money? A'm not afraid to moan you about it - for I'll never meet you. But what is a chance and choice in a man's life? And does it worth chasing persistently the firebird in hope to catch it? And what does remain, when the hope has already died? Does it just a vague whisper of bygone dreams, the doubtful brilliance - in a man's glory - of some nonentity, the stench of emotional decay and - in the dreams - the death of hopes, melancholy, indifference and laziness laziness of soul and mind in a loathsome smugness?

Everyday life, slippery and tight, throttles me. Who am I? What do I want?

Ross : Link : Discussion Board