aybe it’s just me but the stars in winter look further away and smaller. At their furthest rest, they seem crowded together but I know that the distances between them are not as great as the distance I feel between you and I, a distance that does not shift with the seasons.

here is a lot I think I want to write but when I get around to the actual business of it, the only key that sees a real workout is the backspace. It all seems incredibly trite and I know that I will retract it later on. I’ve already secretly retracted a lot if not most of what I’ve written so far. I think I’m just trying to save myself the embarrassment of leaving a trail of milestones so that I can look back in horror and think to myself, ‘Did I really believe that? How could I have been so niave?’ So I keep hovering around the keyboard, knowing that I must write but not really knowing if what I’m thinking of writing is worth the effort. I can already feel the foreshadow of a cringe.

So then the old stand-by where I write a journal entry about the process of writing a journal entry. Maybe at one time it was clever; now it’s just a cold boredom and a cluttering of the creative.

no longer want to see her face and I no longer want to hear them chattering at each other. They are two separate instances of one common frustration linked underneath by a rising tide of pure electrical irritation.

Maybe my plan has been to vacation here all along. I doubt I’m in control of anything anymore.