Don’t find me. Don’t look at me. I don’t want anyone to look at me until I’m complete. Of course all of my writing is depressing; I only write when I’m depressed. Though I would hope negative energy through enough little circuits, and thrown by the pixel into a screen can evoke something positive in the receiver.
Anyways, I’m just a child. Just a rambling little fool, pretending to know anything. Pretending to move of my own volition, denying the benevolent forces that press my hands to the wheel. Pretending to be somebody.
“Fake it ’til you make it.“
It’s lovely outside. This two or three weeks of Spring are perfect. Before it turns to hell, let’s enjoy this time. There’s a sensation in the air that must be tangible. Everyone feels the pull in the pollen and the sun in the wind. How romantic the temperate night air, perfect for keeping skirts short and friends close.