Dusk at Haxey Hood. Curious to see a sky so deep and so blue that it blows the mind's eye for four days before you mind which landlord secured the prize, nevermind who smoked the fool.

See the moon above: how it does follow even hope gone hollow: reflecting light from that star round the bend, the future's past. Below all the revelers carouse. But the moon wants to know you by way of wanting you to know:

By happenstance the corner table becomes a carousel when you wear the hood. & try to wear that hood we all must because because: because epiphanies rarely occur (if at all, much less on a tenable schedule) without breaking a pane or three.

Mind your head above all else.

Quite randomly at times I recall the places like these, everything2.org... hardly typed, but forever in my memory. It scares me to think that I'd almost disappear if it weren't for some of the atrociously embarrassingly things I've written here. As if the only way I exist is because of my smatterings of thoughts hidden somewhere on the Internet, behind names that aren't mine, without ever really knowing where I am or whom I'm typing to.

It's not like this is unreal or even original. That's likely how most people post anywhere. But I've always been a bit private, and even after being here on this here Internet for 20 years, you still can't find much (by my real name) to hold me accountable for. I'm very thankful for that. I've been smart in that way, at least.

I guess really it's just that I was sitting outside, smoking a cigarette, realizing that all the people in my life I used to think were just there, forever and ever, and knew me more than I knew myself, are gone. They are just completely gone now, and even when I tried to hold on, I'm pretty sure it was just for sentimental value. People change, people grow, and in the end who the hell knows whether we knew each other in the first place.

All I really know is I feel... unseen. Invisible. In a way I never really have before. How can I explain to some random unknown that all I want to do is listen to music in my headphones, cry myself to sleep, be held and feel-- really fucking feel-- like I'm cared for, play silly music on my piano, write silly code, and just sit and chat or not chat at all over a nice cup of coffee or green tea?

Oh, I don't know. I spend my whole life fitting into some equation that doesn't exist anywhere that matters. Somehow I just never figured out how to be myself. And so I sit here... writing words to a long lost scratchpad filled with stupid shit that nobody I care about or whom cares about me reads or gives a damn.

still feel red. the color..., word..., emotion..., seemed random at the time. couldn't have been more real. had never been so comfortable to be me. and you to be you. still.

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