Where are you, my old friends?

I am always alone here in the evenings, on the weekends.

There isn’t much air in this place, in this box, in this little enclave, though the echoes of a hundred foreign footsteps are everywhere behind me. I wonder how they can continue so long? None of them understand; none of them can know; none of them know why; none of them are here.

Neither am I, blue as I am, white as I am. I went all the way down the staircase and didn’t find another door; it leads nowhere, just like me, and together we are a wandering pair; lower and lower, deeper and deeper. We have a kind of shared purpose; if only there were lights, I’d stay. I’d stay. If only I could avoid this box, I’d breathe again. I am alone.

I am alone.

I wonder. I wonder. I wonder. Perhaps next I’ll go higher.

Please don’t

fear me.

I didn’t write so very much. But I did do an exceedingly large amount of research. Therefore, the day was not wasted. I have exhausted my mental capital, my fake functionality, my end-quarter mind. I have walked home in the dark. I am numb. Maybe I am dead.

I am going to withdraw into the 4th floor womb, swim in Alandia and soft blue light, and forget what I can. Bis spaeter, world. Maybe you will go away while I’m not looking.

Tomorrow: papers.
Day after tomorrow: papers.
Day after that: papers.
Day after that: papers.
And that: papers.

—

There is nothing in me, there is nothing outside of me. There is nothing.

None of the pieces of life belong to it; when you look too hard, they disappear.

I saw a man and a boy together, and across most of Sunday morning, a girl: small, bewildered, crying. If I were a god and not a man, I would have taken her — to put her out of her misery, and out of his.

I’m only a man.