I haven't written in 10 days. That must be some kind of a record for me...

And so this is my token "hey-i'm-not-dead" entry. Or at least I believe I'm not. Dead that is. Unless I am a corpse who has mastered typing.

You'll never know. Buahahaha.

Though that would explain the pseudoliving I've been doing as of late. A little bit of soaring mixed with some free falling, nothing I couldn't have written better myself.

I would consider killing, for some new ground. I'd maim for a permanent goodbye to days which seem like they've been cut from other days and pasted together, and I'd scheme and perjure for a decent glimpse of square two.

Too much analysis of self, and others, lately. The game in my head continues on, but the ball's not in my court. There doesn't even seem to be a ball, we lost it at some point and now I'm contemplating it's metaphysical existence in excruciating detail.

Dude, like, dude.

You are so outside of me, and maybe this is why. Why I just want such good things for you; and though I know I cannot give them to you, I so want to know you get them.

I don't know why I feel like this. Maybe because I feel I can't ask them for myself. But I see the good in you, and I can feel justified in demanding them on your behalf.

Or maybe it's because I know you'll never see yourself as I can. It's such a wonder that I wish you could, and I feel like I should make it up to you somehow.

I... don't ... know. As always.

There will be sanity later. Or at least this is what I'm assuming.

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