stapled to a telephone pole in the alleyway

Me — 7:30 PM isn't it wild how we just like You — 7:30 PM ? Me — 7:30 PM grow from the people we've spent time around in the way that like I mean we adopt their mannerisms we talk more like them we use words they use we style a little different   we shift our lifestyles a little                here and there or maybe a whole lot in a way it seems our hearts are simply museums of everyone we've ever loved that scares me a little the idea of being a patch-work colossus of love long gone like the smell of a cigarette out a windowsill lingering in my heart and my own memory and impression lingering in the hearts of others in that I suppose the fright is that I'm not made up of aspects that are entirely me but at the same time that fright is juxtaposed by the prospect of the kind of metamorphosis that is growing that is knowing that is loving that's all You — 7:34 PM i think you see it wrong at least i...

      I miss looking at the stars like I could at the Farm. I think it was the connection that I sought by gazing, as opposed to the beauty of the star that it emitted -- and in that, I suppose, I miss rather that I could see the stars in the first place. I miss being so allowed by circumstance to free myself into the sky, and dream awake with the stars and comets. I could have sworn you could see the sharp purple space dust that makes up the faded lilac color of the milky way galaxy dotting a ring around the vertical horizon. As impossible as the stars are to see from the townhouse in the Industrial district, I can see them nonetheless in the light refracted by the rippled lenses that hug my irises; the street lamps and distant invasive flood lights fold and spring outwards in the same ways that the stars do and did. They allow me to fly not. I am a bird in its cage, sitting in my room with the blind partway drawn, peering through the glass and cold.   ...

       Once, I humiliated a man to some people he desired to be friends with after I repeatedly resisted his advances by showing them some particularly unflattering texts he had sent me. My goal was never to humiliate him, but he was certifiably humiliated nonetheless -- I learned of such after he confronted me on the interaction some time after it occurred. It wasn't all that hostile -- his confrontation I mean -- in that way that a man acts when he's frustrated with you but totally and indelibly wrapped around your finger; not to say he was as infatuated with me as he was with the idea of being with me -- after all, there's only one thing no man can resist: himself. The whole ordeal would hardly have been a sentence anywhere my hand should write over, if not for a single accusation he made to me; it was rather late in an early winter evening, sat upon a faux leather couch which felt red, that he said to me, "Y'know, you're a special kind of heartbreaker. Yo...

       When I say that I'm afraid of the future, particularly as it relates to my romantic life, I feel that it is firstly residual anxiety withheld from my relationship with [S.S]; but more importantly, a lack of understanding love and the fear that arises from that lack of understanding. After being depressed at the farm, I no longer feel a tightness in my chest closely associated with anxiety -- a tightness in my chest that I however associate with my first feelings of love for any other person, for [M.M]. When I know I'm in love, however I could, I don't feel that tightness in my chest -- and that makes me nervous, or possibly sad; that contrast, that lack of clarity towards its absence, makes me chase the question, as unhealthy as it may be to dwindle so. I feel like I don't need to understand love, but even just saying that upsets me because carnally I seek to know. That and the language used to make that statement is still reminiscent of the language I used ...

 Dear Josh, I wanted to take the time just to tell you that I'm really glad I got to meet you. I remember very strongly, for whatever reason, sitting and talking about that stupid sunroom story. For your dignity's sake, I won't get into detail [LOL]. I just miss you man. I don't know where you went, and that little worry as to how you've been doing is what I'd like to say is the reason I come back to the thought, but what I really think keeps that thought there in my mind is the idea that I don't know why you left. It was rather ceremonious, when you left, and for that I feel although you deserve some arrangement of ornation in my memory. I know you're alive, but the way you left felt like a funeral. The idea that you're right there -- but gone, for whatever reason, a reason that I cannot know -- kind of feels like chasing the stretching shadow of your own visage down a street at night. It just expands outwards, and you can't ever really grasp ...

       I feel like the longing cannot be effectively captured in a single sentence; but if something was to come close, it would be a single question: why do I miss so strongly things that I've never had? Or, in another; how can I miss a world I was never a part of? I feel like a ghost of someone else's passion. There was this girl. In my head, I say, because at least I could know for sure that she was there: in that I felt, so vividly and strongly, as if it wasn't only in my mind that I could hear her heels clicking off of the pavement, in an alley in Ladd's Addition. Her name might have been Ruby -- and as I write, oh the nagging and remorse that I felt so deep down as I forgot to capitalize that name the first time I wrote it, as if I was commanded to put some respect behind such a lovely name -- but I never met her, at least it is to say, my body never met her. Never met her in this allotted time that I have, living this life.      I remember the...

       Life is a game of chance and love, and not much of anything more. You live to play the game, whether you live to win or simply to play. Personally, I play for a love of the game. Chance is the only truth when truth does not exist. Things happen only because of a dice roll, on a pair of dice made only on the day which they were, only in the place that they were, made only by they whom they where made and rolled only by whom they where rolled by. Everything that has ever occurred has lead up to this moment, only because they played out exactly the way they did. It is pure chance. You can make calculations and predictions and manipulate chance all you may, but at that point, you are forced to recognize that despite however much chance manipulation you practice, you remain in the hands of the very chance you seek to manipulate in first place. Not only this, but if you would continue to zoom out in that way of recognizing how things are, you see now that your ver...