I miss having words that make sense of the world, or express the lack of understanding currently apparent. I stopped writing because I wasn't sure how to say things were going fine. my life got a little dull, or when it was bad I didn't want to talk about it. I found someone to listen and I've been pouring all my words into him instead of here.
the people I think about enough to mention have already been written out. my proverbial pencil is down to a nub thanks to Pants and ex-otter and ex-husband. all the other people I'd want to write about, people like von or bones (she finally left me, 3 or 4 years after the fact) or anyone else -- I just don't see the point anymore.
the thing I could write about, my cat having cancer, I just don't want to bring up. I talk about it to Fig. I don't keep a lot in these days. I guess I have other outlets. I guess I don't want to talk about it.

A realization

All my romanticism was used up on my love of decay (and the punk mindset).