Blank page.

We don't forget. We never do.

I have to make myself interesting for you, I think.
I'm not good enough to be, I think. And that is a 100% correct statement, when it actually comes down to it. No excuse.

You don't know me at all, yet you know me so well. I am already this when it comes to you.

Ms.

Knocking into the windowsill, they go all out, head-on, and pitter-patter no longer is so - sounds more like stones slamming, into the night 'cos they've lost their way, it's dark, the splatters are just sounds made factual by science, the earth is thirsty, so parched, so it comes down like a blanket and covers all; things get washed away, everything glisters and blurs, then something blows, something that toys with the foliage I can't see, like the something happening at this instant that is not touchable or visible; but thinkable, inner-self crap is not what it is, more like an internal mind-jab that the brain refuses to dodge, mostly consisting of memoirs without actual memories, heartaches of an 'imaginary friend', the heart aches, the mind breaks into small fragments, one of those belonging to you, and maybe another on another day and the other on a different one but tonight one of those has flown through the darkness and the wetness and the currents in the air to that place where it resides, just for tonight, that night, the other night.