it comes rarely to me to liken my thought matter to a fried spatter stuck inside microwave oven walls, but it is. you should understand that memories of you, the first time i did and succeeding rare ones from rare visits, seem to be the salve i need to moisten my crisp wave-baked thought matter... and thinking how you seemed to have forgotten, with not a single ounce of affirmation as regards my existence, is a well pit of unknown depressing depths.
and i am fried... please keep still.
in a month i expect to relinquish. i am told to start disengaging on matters that require looking forward for what i will leave behind. you told me you wanted to see because you bear that semblance of me. and expecting what futures to come and freedoms of the mind to recover, i am reminded that soon be, i will be saner, carry that air of age, and see perspectives once more.
you said i needed the world as my scrapbook. you added i draw from the world what life there is to live. there is no other way to see it, and see them. i thought you are, and i said nothing.
so you started disengaging yourself from my existence as i am only starting to learn a gradual turn-over of what remains to be done, minus the distractions of matters which to anyone's ideal should no longer be partaken of someone who leaves to leave behind chains.
i try as much to weave connections.
regularly i send my warm bidding.
lately i hear nothing.
and i am fried. stricken. and broken. as such is life, and what life offers is a scrapbook of what world.