I'm pretty bored and felt like literature called. Mechanized literature - the digital kind, self published and born. So I'm mixing little peices of zeroes and ones. DNA in the antiverbal realm. I love it. Mechanical. Cold. Beautiful.

A sixth one came out, and that's almost as many....

First off, matrimonial matters. There are strictly of the peripheral category - no centralized targets aimed (thank ye gods). But I can't help feeling that the majority of these cases, disconnected though they are, are sherades and facades. The kind of thing that says it is peanut butter, but in fact contains no peanuts. Maybe like a pencil that makes unerasable marks. You know the kind. Damn the first and third species of that hellish writing instrument (although heavenly sketch application). I won't name names, I won't conjecture minutia, nor pick out distinct examples. But I will say this - we're not old enough. None of us are. And the ones that think they've surpassed the genetic, ageless threshhold are holding onto some pretty pathetic straws. The kind that ants couldn't use to survive a partial downpour, nor birds fit to see for nesting.

But let's leave it to this - I assume that a relationship is much like calculus. There are certain algorithms that, once executed, are meant to bring two souls towards a more perfect union. Like a fusion towards a better atom, sinuous and whole. That's the idea, anyway. Or so I'm led to beleive. And even then I start to think maybe I'm not the best leader or the best to be led.

The conclusion I bring myself to trust in generally consists of being a metamorphosis reaction. To be blunt - the forever ought to erase the insignificant, meaning I'd like to think that when you're discussing that kind of ironclad commitment, maybe getting upset over trivialities would subside and fail in the overwhelming wake of sheer happiness and ecstacy.

But even then I beleive that's an overexaggeration on my part - a reaction that just proves I'm searching for way more than can be promised to me or anyone else. Like I'm thinking the prospect of gold was enough to keep pirates from slitting each other's throats. Obviously that is not the case (as evidenced in Goonies). Even with a great wall of everything you'd ever hoped for, white gloves are still disturbed by filthy hands.

Yea, love. But don't you think that would overshadow juvenile arguments? I guess not.

It's an archaic way of looking at things, I'll admit. This isn't the roarings 19th century. Women can show their ankles at the beach (as well as numerous other fleshy counterparts in an optical buffet). So no one thinks about these things to the degree I do. I have heard that this is a "problem," which I always thought was a hilarious noun to ascribe to this situation.

It just proves I'm still right. So moving on, let me close with this:

You guys have seen this happen before. No doubt within the last few years, I beleive. And one of you already treaded those waters, only to meet certain dispatched crews and gangplanks. Given all of that, and despite my eggress, I do wish the best of luck. And I hope in ten years I can look back and call myself wrong. That solidifies their own testaments to temporary catharsis. And only good can come of such a phrase given towards means towards ends towards lives.

Truly, D was right. Transient guests are we.

So then. That leaves that to the dogs. I chose "dogs" for no particular reason, I assure you.

Swift changes ensure my leaving, something I look forward to without trepidation. That's a kind of power I've never felt before. A liberation from the absolute stagnant cesspool. Absolution. I'm blowing up the tunnels and they are collapsing behind me. I stole keys from the gaurd and just happen to know which door to head through. So that's a nice way to think about it. I could reference other things, I guess.

There's about a thousand things I want to write here and now. Some confessionary, others testimonial, premonitions, declarations, and various other exultations. But I want to ensure I have the correct audiences before I begin that sort of thing. So I see another phase as needing to be constructed and performed. In due time. Preaching to walls yields no echoes but your own. I don't want or need nor have use for echoes. I want new retorts, various responses. And yet even then I doubt I'll get them. And when I do (if I do, I should say), I'm going to ignore them nonetheless.

Blood is beautiful.
I'm learning the harmonica.
And poi.
I'm reading at least three books.
I want to write that many.
A sixth one came out, and that's almost as many....
Most of us are still too young.
Most of us don't know what we are getting into.
But we still tell ourselves we do.

Most of these will be continued later.