Whenever I think that I think something meaningful, I feel the need to write it.
I honestly never know what to say.
If I say something bubbly, I feel that it's a lie.
(Although, I'm generally a very happy person.)
If I want to write something... not sad... What would you call it?
Esoteric?
No... that's not quite it.
(Although, esoteric has always sounded like a very lonely word to me.)
I dunno, actuary.
Nevermind, I guess.
Now that I don't write what I feel, and certainly don't voice it.
I guess you'll never know.
Except, maybe...
If you would...
Nah.

Btw, I feel my life soundtrack would be presented as/by/with/about/around/under/inbetween accordions.

Sexy fine
sugar and lime
churning in chyme
hearts beating in time

Snips, snails, puppydog tails
Sugar, spice and everything nice
shoes, cars, and dancing in bars

They grow up so fast. <3

I always accidentally mistake myself for my best friend.

Instantly, I do a double take.

More than one last smile to an old friend.
' Perhaps I shall exchange a passing nicety? '
And I turn, mouth half poised in-between a smile and a hello.
Only to say,
"oh."

Because in the end, it was just me.
Again.

I wonder what was here.
The journal must've gotten bored with the other journals' gossip.
I wonder how it left...
Do you think one day it just stood up, ripped its cobwebs, and ambled away?
Maybe it took a bus.
Maybe it hijacked the family plane...
(the Cessna or the Airlight... what is it? A feather?)
What do you think it could be doing now?
Making a scrapbook?
Skydiving?
Learning italian?
I wonder if it remembers me...
I certainly don't remember it.
I don't remember much nowadays.
(ima... iMA...Ima... EEEEvAAA)
I don't want to go to the bank.

What do you think it would feel like to have a dozen tiny (and some not-so-tiny) shards of glass embedded into the butt of your fist?
Frost yourself.