Twelve people, locked in a room, plow through mounds of evidence and testimony for seven days and determine that based on what was presented, they do not have sufficient evidence to find Jackson guilty of anything.

The rest of us, based on our superior intelligence, decide that they’re idiots, based on the coverage we’ve seen of the case from the media we indict regularly for being sensationalist.

God, I love this country.

I think Jackson’s a creep. I have an opinion about his guilt. I also think I haven’t got a clue if he’s really guilty or not.

The people entrusted to make that decision did have some clue. I have no idea what they were thinking; but I’m willing to bet they thought about it harder than any of us did.

this is interesting, from the childhood memories perspective. I never saw them play; one of the few big 70s bands I can say that about.

Pink Floyd reunites.

I now return to my depression and angst.

if you should be, and you’re not, and when you shouldn’t be, you are, you’re probably clinical.

this is not to say that depression is always clinical in nature.

sometimes, it’s just about plain old suckage and self-esteem crapola.

sometimes, it’s guilt.

and sometimes, it’s just the recognition that life comes with consequences that are not always pleasant, but which are unavoidable. that’s all.

that’s all.

sometimes, there doesn’t even seem to be a poem in it.

EDIT: Guess I was wrong on the last point. Goddamn sadistic muse.