there really isn't a whole lot to be said. in fact. i don't think i have to say anything at all. i'm very afraid that any audible noise might adulterate my affection. it's a careful stupid game no one knows about. and the idea that there are a vast number of thoughts i keep to myself delights me, and at the same time, makes me wonder what exactly is the point of thinking them. how are these profitable. what is the value in them. when one has thoughts that seem so affectionate, and tender because they are truthful, precious because they are secretive, and worthless because they are irrelevant. i would like to say that nothing bothers me. but what does is my inability to avoid my fruitless thoughts. the daydreams that go nowhere. just fanciful stories i make for myself to keep me wanting more of life. so they are fruitful? where exactly would i be if i didn't have them. probably saved from the world, which i do not like. which, for the most part, i cannot stand. the way it moves around, and the other half that stagnates. please don't stagnate. all my loves are sparrows, and nightingales, mockingbirds and chickadees. all very aloof. paying no real attention to my hands or my eyes. no more than they pay to their own. i'm being arrogant. but i'm frustrated. because i've always had the greatest in mind for the ones i care about. and it doesn't even matter. you get lonely. sometimes you feel better, and other times you don't. i guess it's all a matter of how you look at it.

i made my own bed today. for the first time in years. normally, i make my bed right before i disappear for a while. but today i simply made my bed.