Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in

So today has been a very strange day. I woke up in sheer disbelief over the fact that you weren't here in the city, that no ammount of wishing would fabricate the ability to get together with you tonight and do something. I was late for work again (I just can't seem to make it to those 8:30 shifts on time) but they don't seem to notice and are just pleased that I come at all. As I walked to work I saw a large rock ont he side of the road and came up with an odd idea for a story, that I'll get to. Then I got to the last intersection before work and my phone rang, but it was a wrong number. When I got to work I found a scrap piece of paper and scratched down three ideas, all thought up during the walk to work. Rocks off the Overpass. Wrong Number. What you've got in your hand. All morning all I wanted to do was go home and cry/work on my persona projects. After several hours of drowning myself in monotony and pain, I got overmyself and accepted the fate of the rest of the day. I really had the motivation this morning to call up the publishers in town and talk about their submission requirements. That small dream was crushed in its pupid form by a thousand metric pounds of depression. I think I've changed my mind about my camera. I think I'm going to go for a DV camera first. I may not be able to afford the one I'd love to have, but I'll certainly be able to get much better quality video out of a small DV cam than out of a 5mp digital. Now the problem comes in to finding one that I can afford that won't leave me wishing I'd gotten the Sony A95 anyway.

Back to the ideas. Rocks off the Overpass. There's this thing in society that a lot of us refuse to admit. A lot of us are fascinated with destruction. We're a curious people and frankly a lot of us do, at times, wonder what would happen if you took that fist sized rock and threw it in the path of an oncoming semi-truck.

Wrong Number. All the calls I get are wrong numbers.

What You 've Got in your Hands. What you're holding in your hands is a collection of what?