Kristina: oh 17th of christmas
right
me: ?
what is the 17th of christmas
Kristina: lol
i mean.
december.
me: ...
wow

Some Homemade Riddles

I keep one with me all the time, because, well, there are times when you will wish you had it with you. Besides, how will you know what times those are if you don't?

*

I go here twice a day, or maybe four times a day. Or six. Unless, of course, I just go home across the border.

*

I'm always telling you things, but don't try to tell me things back, because I'm not a good listener. I don't make a sound, but I try to be very loud. Sometimes I make you angry, but I can make you warm inside with a hug if you really need it. What am I?

*

I'm often well dressed, but I wouldn't be much fun at a party... At least I can keep you ready for one! What am I?

*

People look at me all the time, but I feel like nobody is actually paying me any attention. Maybe I need to open up a bit more. What am I?

*

Some people love me by getting rid of me, some people love me by hiding me away, and some people, well, they just don't deserve me. You'll sure miss me when I'm gone, though. What am I?

*

You only leave me behind when things are messy... but eventually, I'll be gone. Unless of course, you're on the moon. What am I?

*

You won't find me before 11, and if it's afternoon, you're out of luck. What am I?

*

Everybody has one, and everybody knows it, but some people do not like to admit they do. Some people want some other person's, and others are happy with what they have. The ones who haven't had it long aren't aware of how good theirs is. I get a new one every now and then, and sometimes it's a big deal, and sometimes it doesn't really matter.




Sorry if these are too vague, too obvious, or too... well, you'll know what I mean. I've never tried to make riddles before. Ask me if you want answers.

I think that I haven't been able to blog as much (or at all) because I don't read books anymore. My main inspiration for writing is reading, and I've been stuck on page 157 of Dune Messiah since sometime during the summer, and on book 2 of The Brothers Karamazov since last December. I haven't determined if I enjoy being tortured by Dostoevsky or not.


*

Recently I was pondering why some things are so transient and others are so permanent. I was looking at my plate of finished spaghetti, and thought to myself about how if i put the plate outside for a week, the left over sauce would be gone, but the plate would remain. In fact, after a hundred years, the plate, or at least bits of it, would probably still be there, barring somebody going out of his way to destroy it. This lead me to wonder about permanent objects and transitory objects on a grand scale, a cosmic scale. If the spaghetti sauce and the plate are only separated by their differing transience, then any two objects or substances or merely "things that exist" are only thus separated. At the farthest ends of the spectrum lie pure energy like a photon, and pure matter. I concluded that energy and matter are only separated by transience, and that they are otherwise the same. Then I realized that this was also concluded many decades ago by Einstein.

*

One of my major concerns during the winter is of how to keep my feet warm in my apartment. The main problem that I face is that my feet, and in particular, the area around my toes, tend to sweat when they are covered. If I do not cover my feet, they become cold. If I cover my feet, they become sweaty, and then the effect of the cover diminishes until they become cold anyway. I have tried every combination of the following: socks, wool socks, fuzzy slippers, long pajamas which wrap over my feet, and placing a blanket over my feet. The most effective thus far was long pajamas and fuzzy slippers, since there tends to be enough cover, yet aeration as well. This was still not completely effective, though. Suggestions? Anything short of turning on the heat is good.

*

Last month one of the fire detectors in my apartment (not the one in my room) started making an intermittent beeping sound, indicative of waning battery power. The first day I heard this, I was lying in bed at about 11 in the morning trying to fall back asleep to avoid again realizing that I have a life to which I am enslaved when a loud and unexpected beep sounded. I was confused, but I did not allow the disturbance to rouse me, and I lay in bed for another half hour, waiting for this beep which occurred at an irregular interval of roughly every 140 seconds. Eventually, I got up, closed my door, then fell back asleep until 3 in the afternoon. When I woke up, the beeping had ceased. Of course, it continued again the next morning, and did not cease. As of today, the beeping has been going on for about 3 weeks, and I have grown so accustomed to the sound that I can sleep with my door open and not even notice it. It is as if the sound does not even happen. If I can learn to ignore something so obvious and irritating which could be easily solved by removing the battery from the ceiling contraption, I am probably one of the most lazy and accommodating people on the planet.

*

Skim milk tastes like blood.

*

Interesting things on my desk at this current moment: used Jasmine tea bag which I intend on reusing, two combination locks for which I do not remember the combination (Both are open, and I am afraid of closing either. This is ironic, since they are useless to me open or closed. Surely this means something philosophically.), a post-it on which I have written "Don't wait to be brought low, before you try to reach higher.", Dune Messiah dogeared on page 157, 4 packs of mint-flavored floss, both a N64 controller and a PS2 controller connected to their respective consoles (which are on the ground), half a can of cashew "halves & pieces" (Did you know that buying "halves & pieces" is cheaper than buying "whole"? It's cashews regardless of how complete they are... madness, I say.), 3 contact cases each containing a set of contacts, 4 sheets of loose-leaf with the 12 cranial nerves written on them repeatedly (I've already forgotten them), a bottle of prescription medication for migraine which actually worsens my migraines, my mouse on a mousepad on a mousepad (the bottom one has better traction with my desk, the top one has better smoothness for my mouse), and a random toothbrush, of which I do not know if it has been used, and if so, by me.

*

I've taken to watching movies like an addict in order to replace any sense of purpose or direction that I once had. What started as a desire to increase my film vocabulary (and kill time before going to sleep, like a young child who says "just 10 more minutes!!" while hunched over a book, flashlight under the pillow to continue whenever his mother's patience runs out) has become a necessity, as if not entering the world of a film with absurd plot twists and dues ex machinas would prevent me from moving forward into sleep and the next day of repeatedness. In some ways, I feel like more of a film connoisseur; I can understand why directors would take certain shots to help the audience understand a plot point, or the way that the camera is aimed a certain way in order to change the audience's impression of a scene, or how the music or the colors or the positioning of extras emphasizes or alters the mood. Unfortunately, life is not a movie.

*

I think what has changed in me since college is my vision of the future. Before, I could look in any direction and visualize a career, a family, a community, a life that I was in and had worked toward and enjoyed. I did not look at the present moment and extrapolate it. This is no longer. In some ways, I have become a man without hope. The feeling of knowing that something really exciting waits up around the next bend is no longer in me, nor has it been for some time. When I was young, the thought of watching cartoons after school kept me going during the day, the thought of a play date on the weekend kept me through the week. There are no such cartoons or play dates anymore, nor do their equivalents bring about the same sense of anticipation. Perhaps this is what is meant by the term "jaded", a concept which I had once considered impossible. At least I have something to do which takes up most of my time. I can't imagine what I would do if I did not even have that. I would like to think that I would find something interesting to look forward to, that I would find a goal and work toward it. Instead, I wonder what carrot-on-a-stick can bring me into the next month.

On Fantasy

Taehyung: ok i rejected kirk

Ghost Legacy, Part 1

I've grown tired of writing introspective bits and parts that really fail to live up to the emotions that I am trying to express. Therefore, let's do something different. This is the first half of a short story based on a dream I had recently.

Ahead of me the room stretched wide, dim, dreadful, like a murky cave. Some vague blue-green light transpired from the glowplates on the walls, adjacent to the ceiling. We crept slowly along the raised edges of the room, eyes straining through goggles, feet not contacting the metal deck through the soles of jumpsuits. Every room had felt this way, though some were larger, some smaller, some filled with strange instruments, some empty and vast. The ship was a series of innumerable caverns within a massive hull. Unseen beyond that hull was the void of deep space. We were lost.

It must be close. In my gut I knew that it was surely nearby, stalking us as it had been for some days now. We knew not its form, but it made its presence felt by the disappearance of several of our team, along with several flooded chambers that we dared not enter. There was no chance of succeeding in our original mission, the rescue of a previous team sent to investigate. We knew they had arrived, yet beyond that there was nothing but whispers. There was now only the thought of escape.

ES0014-J6, crouching next to me in the dimness, turned her head toward me. She motioned up above her, at the metal walls, to the space between two glow panels. In the faint light I could see a thin rubber streak, grayish-blue, a residue similar in color to the tread underneath our feet on the sole of the jumpsuits.

"Deliberate." ES0013-C1's voice breathed into my headset. He was crouched opposite us, also looking at the wall. We had not been to this room before, probably, and even if we had, surely we had left no such smear. I looked at J6, and then to the others. J6 nodded. ES0015-S5 came over from around J6, and I stood upon his shoulders to examine the wall. It seemed to be perfectly smooth, but I detected upon contact a slight crease. I turned to my right, and looked down to ES0015-R9, who passed me the appropriate tool. The crease became a cleft, and the cleft became an opening wide enough for a man to crawl through on his knees. The opening continued into a similar passageway that faded until it turned abruptly left some distance away. I got back down off from S5's shoulders.

A sudden thick vibrating coursed through the floor and the walls. It was a powerful tremor without noise which erased all other sensation momentarily. The room remained silent. My palms and back abruptly felt cold as I began to sweat. R9 looked over his shoulder. It was coming.

I motioned for R9 to climb up into the opening in the wall, offering him a boost. He looked at C1, who nodded quickly, and started across the room toward us, followed by the others who had crouched with him on the opposite side. Their movements were quick. I pushed R9's feet up and he disappeared into the hole. J6 was next. The floor rumbled again. J6 was pulling herself up, her right foot in my hands, her arms reaching into the opening, S5 supporting her left foot. Their movements were sharp, deliberate. She went up, pulled through by R9.

Sprinting, C1 and the others were more than halfway across the room now. The walls shook, more intensely now, for a longer time. I pushed S5 up, and his feet came off my shoulders as he slipped into the gap. I was alone on my side now.

I looked up to see J6's face and hand appear. I leapt up, but her hand was still at least an arm's length out of reach. She frowned and disappeared into the hole. It was too high. The ground shook again.

I looked around for something, anything that I could stand on. There was nothing but the metal panel that I had removed to expose the opening. I went through a mental checklist of all the objects in my pack: data master, toolkit, compressor, dehydrator, catalytic, powerpacks... nothing that would move me upwards. I looked toward C1. He was almost here, maybe fifteen paces away.

Something knocked against the side of my head. I jumped back reflexively, but saw only a metal cable dangling. I looked up to see J6 waving for me to climb up. The cable seemed thick, capable of sustaining my weight. The ground shuddered, violently, and my vision was blurry from the vibrations. I climbed.

I turned back as I clambered into the narrow space to see C1 reach the wall. He immediately grabbed the cable and thrust it into the hand of ES0010-ZX2, then crouched. I pulled her up.

Just as she reached top, a massive vibration tore through the room. It continued, increasing in amplitude until suddenly C1 and the two others with him began to glow with a dull light. C1 looked up at me, his mouth opened to say something, and then all three abruptly vanished. I pulled vigorously on ZX2, and we fell backward into the passage. The vibrations continued. "Go, go, go!" R9 called from ahead. We went.

Things I Never Expected About Myself When I Was 12

I absolutely LOVE football. I hated football when I was younger. True, I decided to call myself a Patriots fan when I was 2nd grade, but that didn't really pan out until college.

I enjoy being outdoors to no end. I hated going outside when I was younger, since there were no video games or TV or books (reading inside on a couch is much easier) to be had.

I enjoy being with people. This sounds a bit absurd, since who prefers not being with people? I was an only child until 8, and did most things alone, and that's just how I saw myself. I figured that I was bad with people (still true) and thus would not have too many friends (also true), and so would be happiest alone. As it turns out, activities that I would find uninteresting on my own I find wonderful and fulfilling in the company of friends. That said...

I enjoy being alone more. Perhaps best reflected by my desire to take long road-trips. If I could, I would take a life-long road-trip to everywhere (assuming of course that one can drive across oceans). The freedom to think about whatever and for however long you desire, wherever you wish, whenever you want...

I absolutely love playing sports. When I was 12, I thought that dumb people played sports and smart people made money. I have since found that dumb people and smart people play sports, and that smart people make money... and dumb people often make more money.

Also, I enjoy playing team sports far more than individual sports. When I was younger I liked to prove that I was better than everybody else, and that meant not having teammates. Now I prefer playing a role like a cog in a contraption (or hopefully a bolt in a well-honed machine). The idea of parts and meshing and just... teamwork gives me goosebumps.

I gained mass (both muscle and fat) on my absurdly skinny frame from the age of 12. With terribly short legs and terribly narrow shoulders and protruding rib cage, I did not expect my physical bearing to change much, but, alas.

I'm still awful at studying. I figured that I would eventually figure out how to motivate myself and study, but this has not come true. In a position where simply "figuring things out with what you know" is just not possible, I have not yet adapted, and thus I am unable to reach my potential. I feel like a computer without sufficient data when I take tests, like a car whose wheels spin madly but do not touch the road.

I'm not married. I had high expectations when I was 12. (and 18.)

I haven't done something of note, like writing a book or making a scientific discovery. I had (and have) an excess of confidence, mostly unfounded, and yet it has yet to amount to much. I still firmly believe that I will eventually do something of note. Maybe most people do.

I am still learning how to be a real person. I once thought that a college graduate was a real person. I have learned since reaching that state that this is not true, for I have yet to become a real person.

I'm not friends with the same people. But who still is at this point? No 12 year old child would predict having totally different friends.

I'm 10 years older than when I was 12. Logically, it makes sense. To the mind, however, comprehending 10 years in the future is just not possible. A massive paradigm shift requires such a gradual progression. Maybe I'll try this again in 10 years.

Snake Noodle

Matthias: Want anything from bubble tea?
me: yea, lemme get a beef noodle
Matthias: Kk...big or snake straw?
Eww..Small*
me: can I get a snake noodle with extra snake
Matthias: Sigh

What Is But Never Was

Often I sit here at this webpage with an empty text field, some deep and rich song playing from my black speakers, and ruminate, looking to the limits of distance both at minimum inwardly, and maximum outwardly. I can lose minutes here in my mind. Afterwards it is as if I have suffered a seizure, with no recollection of previous thoughts, only realizing that my knees are sore from sitting in the same position for too long. Sometimes I am left with a sense of grandeur that I suspect correlates with the breadth of my thought, a hint of the magnificence that has been lost.

These moments are not without effect. I rouse myself to find that I have been wrapped in a layer of foam. I cannot hear as clearly. I cannot see what I look at. I feel my clothes on my back, my glasses on my face, but in truth I do not feel anything at all but a vagueness that fails to represent my surroundings. When I turn to listen, I realize that I can hear everything, every little detail, every mouse-step in the wall, every leaf clap from the trees outside, every tic, every toc. When I look at my hands, the wall, a sheet of paper, I have tunnel vision as through a telescope, showing me every feature, every aspect. I know everything. I am everything. But these are not real sounds, real sights, they are the foam that surrounds me, surrounds my mind, a dense layer of reality that is not real but to my senses.

It is as if my mind escapes from the complicated shell of its body during these times, removing itself from the whirring and ticking of life in order to nestle in its own comfortable essences. It is not a dream. It is as real as the nose on your face, or the feeling of dew on the grass when you step on it barefoot. It would be an insult to call this time "daydreaming", for the aforementioned reasons, but also because it is neither night nor day, as those are merely products of planetary rotation. The best description would be an inversion, since my mind is moving inside of itself, yet it is expanding, so perhaps an explosion might also be appropriate.

After a few moments, I can feel the foam recede. This is hastened by any single action at all, as if the sensation of soft carpet underfoot is equivalent to the slash of a keen blade through my subconscious remnants. I am left with only what I do see, what I do hear, what I do know, which is so much less than what was but a moment ago.

Thinking Questions 7

Would you value your life more (take fewer risky actions or attempt to decrease risk in actions you take) if you had more financial resources? To paraphrase, if you had unlimited wealth, would you value your life more than you do now? Would you feel that you have more to lose due to your wealth, or more possibilities to gain by taking risks?

For example, I cannot afford (in terms of both money and time) to drive around randomly in Europe or to travel to Tanzania and climb Kilimanjaro or to learn to fly personal aircraft or go spelunking or any of the various things i want to do. These activities require time and money that I don't have, but would generally carry greater risk than the activities that I now participate in (with what I would consider greater personal reward).

Would possession of wealth make you more hesitant to risk your life? Does having wealth mean you have more to gain, or more to lose?

--

Is beautiful music truly beautiful? Why is art beautiful? How does art in its various forms (pictorial, cinematic, musical, linguistic, etc.) inspire emotions in people? Surely, some art overtly imitates life, perhaps offering people the chance to view the world in its many aspects from different and possibly otherwise inaccessible angles.

I personally only regularly pursue music. I sometimes (sporadically? occasionally? infrequently? What's a good word for the opposite of regularly, but doesn't imply that I don't take it seriously?) engage in reading, and I suppose that writing falls under the same category. Every now and then I watch movies or television shows (but not reality television if I can help it... I hate reality television.) In any case, these actions affect my emotions, as art is wont to do. I prefer my emotions, however, to be manipulated by the real thing, as in circumstances, places, or other combinations that are not produced by man for the express purpose of affecting my emotions. I prefer real life to art.

But the product of these experiences is not the same as that which arises from experiencing art. For example, one of my favorite compositions "The Great Gate of Kiev" from "Pictures at an Exhibition" by Mussorgsky (itself art representing art representing real life) inspires in me a great sense of passion, wonderment, excitement, a feeling of extraordinary grandeur. I have not seen the painting that the composition is based on, nor have I seen the actual gate itself in Kiev, but I do know that I would surely not experience the same feeling when viewing either as when I listen to the piece. In fact, viewing the painting and the actual building would definitely not yield the same response, either.

This is my question, then: what is the difference between art and "real life"? Why are they different? Are they really different at all? Ought I to prefer the real deal to the imitation? Does art truly imitate life, or is art a part of life?

-

Also, art feeds most (actually, almost always) vision and hearing (and understanding). Why is there no smell art? I suppose food could be considered art, as well, though I don't think anybody has ever died from lack of music listening or sculpture viewing. Likely, somebody has lost his or her mind from inability to perceive outside stimuli, and this might be considered death. I hope somebody comes up with smell art, because I think that would be very interesting (or just novel).

--

Also:

Melissa: no
you're an
ARRRange

I didn't know

me: hey so
if i visit stl during the first week of aug
will it be worth it
i'd be driving
Alan: yeah i think so
i'll be here
me: lol

Ode to Ideas Not Written

Here's to the poem about baseball's first base,
itself a long metaphor about go-to friends.
There would have been a stanza dedicated
to only having to touch it to be safe,
and another about wanting to go home.

Here's to a discussion on my love of cooking:
maybe a bit or two about correctly cooking onions and pork,
but mostly about the love of simmering sauces and mixing flavors.
There is probably also an invitation to come eat my food,
and maybe a warning, too.

Here's to the cryptic message written to an unrequited love,
talking about shouts not heard (metaphorically),
pigeons and doves, cats and dogs,
being far away and close at heart,
and a blurb about boomerangs.

Here's to a philosophical discussion on the importance of reviews and public opinion of movies,
a statistical study of my opinions versus the critics',
where I declare myself the winner.
This one might one day be written.

Here's to a vague idea I had while driving home one day.
I got really excited while getting out of the car,
and forgot it while getting out my keys.
This actually happens every day.

Here's to yet another failed discussion on whether or not music is a stronger medium than prose,
written in iambic pentameter,
just to confuse the ones who look for irony.
Perhaps they'll come today and read this line.

Finally, here's to the empty "New Post" page that is opened and interrupted,
the thought failing to manifest itself from my mind to my keyboard,
and later the page is closed, leaving me with the sense of loss of a miscarriage.
Either that or I'm laughing at the funny picture you sent me.

Saying What You Mean, Doing What You Want

A lot of times, I am shown things (videos, articles, songs, etc.) that are meant to be good, or funny, or interesting, and my only response is dislike or apathy. There are occasionally instances where I am shown something that I really do enjoy, but this is rare.

The problem, however, is in my reaction. I do not speak honestly often enough; I instead often waffle and give a neutral response. In situations where I am not very familiar with the other person, I sometimes give a false positive. This disgusts me. I'm not sure why I am compelled to respond in such a manner. Perhaps this behavior is a deeply ingrained reaction.

Do you do this? I suppose this might even be a normal activity. I think I will attempt to not do this at all from now on. If I do not like something, I will say simply that I do not like it. I am interested in seeing what kind of response I get.

A Dream Deferred

I started painting today. I know that you've told me not to do so on several occasions, but I can't stop myself. Before I even understand what has happened, my hands have already splashed colors and shades against the paper. I know you will be sorely disappointed that I have created this drawing. I myself knew that eventually I would again paint, despite my reservations. One who is born to create such things cannot be drawn away from it.

These paintings take time. Each day I add a bit, change a stroke. This is my art, and I am entitled to undo any part of it whenever I choose, though I suppose this may not be reflected in the final work. I have never thought of this before, but you will only see what ultimately remains, while I will see the entire process stored within.

Today I added some scenery. I'm not sure exactly where the idea for the backdrop came from, but I really love it. I hope that you will, also. Admittedly, I am beginning to feel as if the creative process would benefit from your input. It is difficult at these times to understand who exactly this painting is for. My inspiration is external, yet inspiration is in its very nature an internal phenomenon.

I am ready to show you what I have, since the first stage is essentially completed. I need your help with the rest.

I am starting to remember why I hate painting so much. My paintings are special, though many do not understand that. Perhaps this is because they are special to myself only. What I see in the creation that I have wrought is not a shared vision. This is the way of art, I suppose, that the vision that I possess within, though manifested faithfully in the work, cannot be understood by any save myself. This is doubly painful now, since I had only one audience in mind even before I began painting, and yet you admit that you are only able to appreciate the technical aspect of the work.

I know that you told me to quit, and that I agreed completely, but the canvas is still there in my studio lying against the wall. I’m not sure what I should do with it. What happens to a dream deferred?

Maybe I'm just not a very good painter.

I haven't been doing any art recently. I know you only said to cancel that one painting, but ever since I took it off the easel, I haven't found the desire to put anything else up there. I know, my career is at jeopardy if I continue like this. An artist's life is in his work. I guess the real question is, what happens to an artist who cannot continue his work? Should he change his career? What if his art is the only way he knows? What happens to a dream deferred?


---

(in an unrelated note)

He is risen.

I Miss Writing

(At 12 AM)
Stacy: mmm yea i'm just gonna chill for another 15 minutes
it's not due until 4 pm tmrw
me: lolllll
i know that feeling
at 6am you start feeling a lot more urgency
at 10am you feel dire urgency
Stacy: hahahaha
me: and at 1pm, you're either gonna finish or you're not
meanwhile your eyes feel like they have peanut butter in them
and your feet are tingling every time you stand up
and you run your fingers through your hair
and it feels like crabgrass

I wish I could write stuff like this all the time, but there's no inspiration most of the time.

Thinking Questions 6

Fate comes to your doorstep and offers you an additional 30 years to your lifespan. Fate promises they will be wonderful and in good health. The catch is, one additional person will die this year in a fatal car accident. You will not know who this person is out of all the people who do die this year in a fatal car accident. (Do you accept?) You accept.

Later you learn that about 1.2 million people are killed in car accidents each year worldwide. Whose death are you responsible for?

Think of one of your very close friends. Let's say this person was killed in a car accident this year. Are you responsible for that person's death?

In a different scenario, let's say that Fate comes to your doorstep and offers you the chance to save one person this year from dying in a fatal car accident. The catch is, you must give up 1 year of your lifespan. Do you accept?

Let's say you accept. Fate says that the previous offer was a lie, and you actually must give up 10 years, and that he is surely not lying this time. You believe him. Now do you accept?

Despair

Today, a deep dark shadow crept over the Earth. I sit up in bed, thinking about why I get up before the sun comes out only to realize that it is noon. George once told me that I should take these kinds of days off, just to think a bit and muddle my thoughts down on paper, but there are always things to be done. Besides, George isn't here, and I am, with all my responsibilities, so I get up out of bed anyway and get to work.

Building the house has taken the better part of the last year. More recently, things have gone more slowly because I must get the wood from farther and farther away, since there isn't any more nearby for miles. When there were still trees around, George would tell me to not cut them down because they were beautiful, that I would miss them when they were all gone, for I would have nothing to look at. I will look at the sky, I would tell him, as I chopped away. Today the sky is dark.

I stand at the doorway and look out onto a landscape covered by a vague dimness. Behind me, the house stands, nearly complete, the roof pointed up towards the inky black above. I wonder what to do.

I sit down on the threshold and think about what George said, about muddling up thoughts and writing things. Who would read what I write? I look to my right as if expecting somebody to be standing there waiting to read my writing. There is nothing there, just a sooty darkness where the only light comes from the distant fires that are always burning. I try to imagine an arbitrary person to talk to, but I can only see George, who says to me, "Maybe you should go back inside".

Inside, I sit back down on my bed and wonder what I am supposed to do. I wonder why I am even building this house. George isn't here anymore. After we finished the kitchen George was angry that there was nowhere to get running water for the sink. We argued over the kitchen sink until he finally left out the door we built saying that I was stubborn and unable to move on. Nobody was coming back, he had to find them. After that, I built the house alone. George would come back, eventually.

On the desk there is a stack of paper that George scrounged up, with a pencil, too. He brought it to me one day, saying, "You have such great ideas. I think you should be a writer." I go now, to sit at the desk, barely able to see the blank page. I pick up the pencil and start to think.

Many ideas flood into my head, thoughts that I have not had for a long time, like apple pie or singing karaoke. I think about getting Christmas gifts and strolling down the beach on a warm day. For the first time in a long time, I think about her, all those years ago, when things weren't like they are now.

As I am ready to put the pencil onto the page, I see a light flickering through the window. I stand up and walk to the door. It is George, it must be George. I take three steps out of the door before realizing that it is not the light of George's lantern. The sun is rising. I look down at my watch, realizing that it still reads noon, or perhaps midnight. The battery must be dead. The pencil slips from my hand into the dirt. There is much work to be done today. I have almost finished the house.

Joyce's new status message - my heart! it beats so quickly 11:04 PM
me: ??
sounds like love
Joyce: mmm
or alcohol