Remember that time you killed someone? Yea, you did.

You said you were sorry but things happen. You said things didn't feel right. You told me that life is like a shit sandwich, and that you want all the bread you can get. You said that life is like a bowl of cherries but you only got pits. Remember that?

You seemed alright until, well, you know. You said things were starting to get to you. You blamed it on the world and the government and poverty in third world countries. You were consumed with the angst of the world. A collective energy, you said. You said that the world is nice place to visit but you couldn't live there.

And so you killed yourself.

It wasn't all at once. That would have been much to easy. You started from the inside out, like a bomb just waiting to go. And when it went you couldn't believe it.

yes, I am

So, anyways, yea. Do these words really mean that much? I once sat here every night, typing in to the keyboard all sorts of things. But as of late I find myself lacking motivation, something is different.

I've been reading a lot lately. After my internet connection was down for a month, the sharpness of the screen and the mechanics of it all, this internet phenomenon, has begun to bore me. I need the feel of paper, of a cover and a spine and a bookmark.

I'm not really sure what I'm trying to say exactly, but I'll tell later.