And I suppose it will not always be like this but one thinks of all the lovely things one has done/is doing/will do, and they are defined not for themselves, nor who was there, but rather distinctly and overwhelmingly by who was not.

And it is probably rediculous to be lonely and longing and bleeding all over the goregous black wrap-lace-strap stilletto shoes I purchased today, even in this little white hole out of the way, surrounded by a thousand other silent white pages, (or variously colored), but I really rather had to say it to /someone/, and s'trewth, that's what This Place is for.

Because some things are so lovely, and so very pleasant, that they turn you into a greed creature a little, and time passes differently, short in the having, long in the not. Even when you know it will come again, and in not too terribly long.

One is Typical, but at the bottom, under the ache and the cracked glass and the rest-- well, it is all because-- one is...

um. Happy.

Guh.

<<agé chose>>

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