I don’t quite know what to say. Life has this documentary feel. Like a life real but once removed. The editor leaving something to be wanted. There is this feeling I see gentleness unremarked but cannot touch it glass between me and the thing I crave. My fingers make moist dimples on its surface which evaporate in seconds. I isolate my self in remorse and obsession. I will not apologize but I cannot walk away stuck in a repeating circle of self-recrimination and uncertainty of repentance and false observance. My body revolts curls up tightly an expression of the exhaustion my mind cannot articulate. mornings get harder. I know that the things that I have wanted have been small and barely more than a beginning but my stubbornness and my hamster-like in-the-moment enshrouded quality refuse to let me believe that there is any want beyond the want I have now any need beyond that need which I have already felt. Consumed by myself by inventions I have myself created I cannot live beyond this moment and instances of no note or of a different tune from the symphony I heard that have long since died and should long ago have been laid to rest. The others who were there have cremated them I am relatively sure certainly I am the only one who still thinks over an American Beauty overstudied instant a hand fussing determinedly over a shoe eyes staring frustratedly at a phone mist falling quietly through a porch light fingers twirling the mechanism of a wind-up toy. Pointless moments their import known only to me and even I rightly doubting their consequence. Significance being an utterly relative notion. I have grown too used to the interior of my skull trapping myself involuntarily voluntarily trapping myself in in an Anne Frank hideaway made of surprisingly strong glass.