i think some days, when i am nothing but only tired, and even the lively edge of bitterness is gone, i'm just not there. like, hello, eleven-year cycle of fatigue & sleeplessness, i did not miss you. what is there?

i could spill away; i think about it. i think about how love saves the day, but only hand in hand with the truth, because love alone is just feeble, aimless emotion, and truth alone is too much of a cool-hearted, solitary companion. these things temper each other.

well, i don't know where love is, but i've got a lot of honesty, which is the thin safety blanket that i'm sitting on. what does a girl have to do, to disappear?

she said that she found that sad things troubled me more than i think they will, and she's right. at least i've got my guitar. i spend time holding onto its hollow body.

it was nice for a while. i thought things were going to be different.