Tiger, my friend

'You know that thinng that I was talking about the other day?'
'Oh, the thing with the pictures?'
'Yeah, the little stories with the pictures. What was it again?
'A book?'
'I know it's a book, what was it called?'
'I don't know, you wouldn't let me have a proper look at it.'
'I did, I gave it to you after I looked at it.'
'You put it back after you looked at it.'
'Did I? Sorry. You should have looked at it. It was lovely.'
'Mmm.'
'What was it's name again?'
'I don't know.'
...
'Are you hungry? I'm hungry.'
'Kind of.'
'Did you want something to eat?'
'Uhhh, okay.'
'What did you want to eat?'
'I don't know, what were you having?'
'I don't know, that's why I asked you what you felt like.'
'I'm not that hungry anyway.'
'Well I am. What do I feel like?'
'I don't know. There's leftovers in the fridge.'
'No, I had that for lunch.'
'Toast?'
'Ran out of bread.'
'Soup?'
'Too much effort.'
'Well, you're not going to find anything by going from fridge to pantry and just staring into space.'
'I'm not hungry anyway.'
'Mmm.'
'What did you want for dinner?'
...
'Did you remember to take the bins out?'
'Mmmm?'
'The bins. Are they out?'
'No, I have plenty of pins.'
'The bins. Did you take them out?'
'No. I thought you did.'
'I'm pretty sure you said you took them out.'
'Did I? I don't remember saying that.'
'I'm sure you did. You said that the recycling was about to overflow, and did I mind.'
'The time? It's 8.30.'
'What?'
'You asked what the time was. I told you.'
'Your clock is wrong. It's 9 now.'
'Is it really? How fascinating.'
'Yes, I'm sure it's riveting. I'm going to check if the bins are out.'
'Oh, don't bother, I took them out earlier. The recycling is about to overflow.'

Isn't it Novel? Seven Types of Ambiguity

My copy of Seven Types of Ambiguity, by Elliot Perlman, has another one of those stories behind it, though this time not in the way I acquired it, but rather in the way that it caused me to lose something else.
So, in the spirit of good and long stories, I shall start at the very beginning.

I have a thing for Borders, and most bookstores for that matter, and so this is where it begins - Borders. I was trowling though the literature section, not really looking for anything in particular (The Keats biography I was searching for being unavailable), when I came across this book. It's title really got me, as I'm a sucker for a good title, so I decided to read the first page.

Tangent: I have this theory that you should (mostly this is about me) be able to tell if you'll like a book from the first page. This theory has countless holes in it, but I find that if I like the writing style of the first page, I'll like it for the rest of the book, and therefore, most probably like the whole book. Don't take my word on this though. I could just have really good judgement, or really good luck.

So I really liked the first page, and decided to buy it for my trip to melbourne. On the plane back to Sydney, I read part of it got upto the climax, stopped and put it in the seat-pouch. Mistake one. I, being so absent-minded, left it on the plane. Good one, eh?
I called up the company, they had my book, and I had to pick it up. So, on the hottest day of the year so far (Mind you, it was only the 2nd of January, but it was still very hot), I got in my rickety old car, also known as Betty, and set off to the airport to get it. Mistake two.
I got the book. I couldn't let it go because I hadn't finished it and it was getting really good, but on the way home my car died. On a main road, middle lane, in front of a mall on a saturday. Terrible, terrible time and place to break down.
And thse was smoke coming out of the bonnet, the car wouldn't start, and I had to be pushed into the car-park to wait for the NRMA. Meanwhile, it started pouring with rain (Oh, summer storms), my dress went see-through, and Betty was written off. All for this book.

It's an okay book, written in seven parts, from seven different points of view. It was clever how all of the characters interelated in some way, and each character is clearly different from the others.
The title, Seven Types of Ambiguity comes from an influential literary critisism of the 1930's by William Empson, who explores the different types of ambiguities found in poetry.
Empson is mentioned in the book as Simon's (as main a character you will find in this book) idol.

It is basically about a man, Simon, and his long distance love affair with his ex-girlfriend, Anna from 10 years ago. Anna is married and has a son. Simon kidnaps her son and takes him to his house where his girlfriend finds them and calls the police. It gets even more complicated, so you really have to read it to get the whoile idea. It's a great story and very well written, but to be honest, the female characters are a little flat. When you read the female character's sections you can see the male behind the words. They don't have the depth that female characters should have, and seem to have a masculine obsession with appearances and suuperficialites, eg. the repetition of 'pancake-flat stomach'. I hate to be scathing, but I doubt there are alot of middle-aged women with children who constantly reassure themselves that everything is okay because they retain that 'pancake-flat stomach' of their youth. I think it's the lack of insecurity, that is so prevalent in the male characters, that falls short in the female. I will say that it is not the case in part seven, where Rachael has both certainty and direction as well as insecurity and emotion. Part seven is probably the strongest and most enjoyable part of the book.

It's a fascinating book, a little arrogant, but eloquent and quick. The story is smooth and it makes to inspect the nature of relationships. It's name is well suiting, and quite intelligent. It has touches of the thriller genre, but don't look out for an open thriller-esque style. It is in the subleties and what is witheld that you find touches of suspense. It is complex and you'll find a little of everything in it.
Try it on for size.

So there we have it, a complex story surrounding a complex story.

Until we meet again, go make some trouble.

Not even the trees

How much can any one person feel in their life? Is there a quota, and when you have felt all the pain, and love, and longing, and delights there are to feel, what then? Will there be nothing, a numbness, a life so insensitive in retaliation to its past excesses?


I spent my childhood in India. My father ran a trading company, and my mother would not have him leave England without her. Although my father would always complain about her stubborn obstinacy, he wouldn't have had it any other way.
The house we lived in was a large white villa, made of cool stone and bleached wood shutters. The kept gardens melted into rainforest, and this is where my fairytales came to life.
In the hottest part of the year, my mother would always take to her parlour, where there was a hammock in which she would doze, fanning herself with a much-loved oriental fan. Sometimes I would sit and watch her, her curls falling loosely, each movement infenticimal, as if she were willingly trapped in a thick haze.
I would watch the dappled light from the palms dance on the floor, enchanted by their etheral fall and swell.
As adults are more capable of doing nothing, I would soon enough creep out of my chair to run about the gardens. The British Consul's son would almost always be waiting for me.
I met Albert in the month after my third birthday. I can not pinpoint the exact moment we became friends, nor the occasion which begot our acquantence. He was merely in my life, and we knew of nothing else. He was the sort of boy you could never know existed, but when you did, you would find him everywhere. He wasn't the type you'd think about before you went to sleep, nor was he the sort you'd write poems about, nor the sort who could make you blush coyly when he spoke to you. He was just a part of me, in a way those much older and wiser than we could never seem to fathom.

Together we would run barefoot through the rainforests, as fast as we could, the world rushing past us in a blur of green and mottled browns. Together, the world of Kipling would come alive, the world around us would transform into whatever we needed. When the sun was most high, we would creep like tigers to the creek to luxuriate in the soft cool of the lazily flowing stream. Lying on the mossy rocks, we would whisper as if in a room full of people, and together we would discover the mysteries of the universe, why the sky was blue, the meaning of life, before dozing into a contented daydream in the hushed light.
'Psst.' He would cup his hand to my ear, so not even the trees could hear what was only for me.
'Yeah.' I would whisper back.
'Let's never leave.'
'Okay. Why?'
'Because it's nice here.' he said simply.
'But what about everyone else?'
'Who cares about everyone else?' he stood us as he said this, raising his voice in correlation to to his height. 'I want to stay here forever. I want to build a big house innn...' He span around trying to pick the perfect tree, 'That tree. I want to have tigers as pets and I want you to be my wife.'
'Can we have peacocks?' I asked, still staring at the sky through the glittering leaves.
'Okay. As long as you never leave.'
'Well, you have to promise it too. I don't want to be stuck here forever looking after peacocks.'
'I promise. I promise I will never leave.'

But we did. We left when it was dark, when the shadows, once full of fairies and magic, became homes for demons and monsters of the deep. And in the end, he left on that journey most eternal, where niether light, nor dark could change his path.

Never let me go

A note before reading;

For full effect (it even made me cry, and I wrote it), play this whilst reading. (Right click and open in new tab)


You would point your pen directly at my heart. Every word you wrote would seep through my pores, making me transparent in every possible way. I would become vulnerable underneath your omniscient imagination, yet you would protect me.
Each letter was a moment we would share, threading and entwining us in a web of luxurious memories. Though, at times, we were days apart, I could still feel your warmth, feel your breath, as if you were inches from my soul, feeling my heart beat, as if you were the reason for its palpitations.
Those were the days. When your greatest pleasure was to breathe the same air as I. When all we needed was to be drunk on our rich contentment, so thick with fulfilled dreams and promises to sustain us.

That was before you went away. Away to fight a noble cause, to be the man I had made you out to be.

I remember that moment that I saw it in your eyes. The moment we knew we would never see each other again. Nothing could have stopped you, could it? To tell you that the man I saw you as had nothing to do with conquest, with victory or valour, but with the tenderness of your soul, with the fluttering of your eyelids as you awoke each morning, with the way you laughed, with the way you spoke. Each page you wrote was written in passion. It was you that I loved, not your achievements, your exterior, your surfaces and lines.

Was it written in the stars, all those years ago, when pressing my shoulders against the still warm bitumen I refused to look at you, in favor for those all-knowing lights. Like Shakespeare's most beloved, star-crossed two, was it fated that we were never meant to last?

You had looked down at me, my hair spread out like a halo agaisnt the black. I looked at your shoes, your belt, but never your eyes. Was I scared that I would glimpse that same look, the look that let me go?

Impatiently you insisted I get up. I refused, wanting so much more from those distant lights.

A car turned onto the street, your cool hand grasped my warm as you pulled me to you.










Kind of part of a series;
The part pre-dating part one.
Part one.

Skeletons!

10 Things You Want -

01. To be loved.
02. A first edition of John Keats' poems.
03. The sort of friend that just comes over exactly when you need them, who knows everything about you, and is a real person.
04. To be remembered. Even just for a little bit.
05. Kittens.
06. To live in the city.
07. A sweet-as job.
08. To never ever ever have to go to another doctor/dentist/-ist ever again.
09. To write a book.
10. An amazing old house with a library (with shelves!!) and secret doorways, mounted animal heads everywhere, a large stone kitchen, a fireplace and mis-matched furniture.


9 Musicians/Bands You Love -
01. Artisan Guns.
02. Vampire Weekend.
03. Stars.
04. The Killers.
05. Ingrid Michaelson.
06. Florence and The Machine.
07. Mumford and Sons.
08. Lykke Li.
09. Coeur De Pirate.



8 Things You Do Everyday -
01. Drink more coffee than I should.
02. Procrastinate.
03. Read.
04. Think that I really should invite people over to drink that bottle of strawberry champagne that's been in my fridge since my birthday.
05. Write.
06. Say something which I thought was incredibly witty, but just turns out to be really nerdy, and in most cases, only funny if you had read the book or article which I was referring to. (Yes, this happens everyday. Sometimes more than once.)
07. Forget to feed my cat, and end up over-feeding him. No wonder he's the size of a small panther.
08. Forget what day it is.




7 Things You Enjoy -
01. Reading.
02. Rainy Days.
03. Being happy.
04. Mens mis-matching socks.
05. Dancing my way to my bus-stop.
06. Watching cooking shows and documentaries on ABC and SBS.
07. Making faces at people.



6 Things That Will Always Win Your Heart -
01. Old books.
02. Remembering things.
03. Suprise adventures.
04. Poetry and literature.
05. Being charming and witty.
06. That sort of hair that looks so effortlessly suave, but probably took AGES to look like that, but oh-my-goodness-doesn't-it-look-fine.



5 Favorites: Movie, Song, Book, Food, Season -
01. Summer Holiday. 1956, Cliff Richard. Mmmm.
02. Lovely Tonight - Joshua Radin.
03. Catch-22.
04. Blueberries.
05. Autumn.


4 Smells Or Scents You Enjoy -
01. Loccitane Cherry Blossom.
02. My cat after he's had a bath.
03. Coffee.
04. Friends.



3 Places You Want To Go -
01. London.
02. Paris.
03. New York.



2 Favorite Holidays -
01. Anywhere with vintage stores.
02. Home.



1 Person You’d Marry On The Spot -
01. Matthew Grey Gubler.

So, what do you do?

'So, what do you do?'

The very sentence fills me with dread. Why? You may ask. Because, my dear friends, it is the perfect opportunity for others to form their opinions of a person, and let's face it, it gets pretty darn awkward form there on.

You may say that it is quite an univasive question, and I really shouldn't mind people asking me. I beg to differ.

Here are possibly honest, potentially untruthful answers that I have actually given, which lead to all sorts of odd situations.

'So, what do you do?'

'I'm a student.'

'Ohhh, okay', inside their heads thinking that I must'nt have much money, like all students. 'What do you study?'

I brace myself. 'Design'. Immediately their faces light up. A real, live creative!

"Wow, that's so cool! What sort of design? Like, Architecture or something?'

'Uh, no, actually. Fashion.' Now, watch them as they try to keep that same excited look on their faces. You can almost see them take back everything they thought about me not having money. My intellect suddenly dissapears in their eyes, and they begin scrutinising everything I'm wearing.

'Ahh, fashion. Do you enjoy that?'

Uhh, yes. Yes, I do. I don't think I'd be wasting three years on my life and more money than I care to announce on something I don't enjoy. 'Uhh, yeah, I do. Yeah.' Awkward silence ensues.

'So, what do you do?'

'Nothing, I'm un-employed.'

'Ahh. So how do you live?'

I'm sorry, did I miss the part where it suddenly became socially acceptable to talk to the un-employed about money issues?

'I manage.'

'Ahh. That's, um, great.' Awkward silence ensues.

'So, what do you do?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?' Nervous chuckle, wondering if I'm actually being serious.
'Yeah. I'm homeless.'
'Wha..? Um, seriously?'
'No. Not seriously. I live on the beach.'
'Like, on the beach?'
'Yes. I dig myself a hole to sleep in every night. I have eight cats and they stand guard as I dream.'
Awkward silence ensues.


And that's why I dread the question.
And now I'm off, go burden someone else with your invasive questions!

The things you should NEVER say to another person.

You know those times, the times that you go to say something, and up comes an inkling.
'You shouldn't say that.'

Unfortunately, most times this inkling comes at the exact time that you're saying it. And that's when it hits you. 'I shouldn't have said that.'

This happens to me. A lot. More than a lot, actually. But man, oh man it's always funny, the covering up.
'Ah. Uhm. Yes. Could you just...uh... Forget that?'
'No, actually, I think I'm going to remember that for a vrey long time. In fact, I think I'll bring it up a lot.'
Most of the time when I say these things around my friends that's the sort of reply I get.

So, to help all those unfortunate souls who talk before they think, a lesson.
The things one should never say to another person.



I'll be back in a hot jiffy.

When asking someone to try something on, 'Can you get into my pants?'

Yeah, their break-up is still quite fresh. Like, hot, steaming fresh.

While you're out, if you find a skeleton could you bring it back for me? I have a thing for bones.

I always lick my pickles. I am an experienced pickle-licker.

I take my clothes off in my sleep. I also think I sleep-walk.

You really remind me of Chewbacca. I'm not sure why, though.

I learned how to impale men on stakes last night, it was really interesting.

You know, everything would be much better if I didn't have to wear clothes.
'Crystal, you realise you would be institutionalised if you did.'
Not if I were in the Army.
'Uh, yes, also if you were in the Army.'

Look, I've read Catch-22. I'll just join the Airforce and it will be all okay.

Oh my goodness, I love heads mounted on the walls!

I've seen this one, the guy is a cannibal and he feeds the search and rescue team the girls he killed. It's one of my favorites!

It's okay, I have hands.

I think I'm an old man inside. Though, probably more of a famboyantly homosexual old man. I prey on young men. Not that they're young to me, as they are probably older than me, but to me as an old man they would be young. And I don't prey on them, but me as an old man would.

Sorry I was late, a stalking opportunity came up, and I'm not one to turn something like that down.

On second thoughts, they do make for some hilarious moments.

Why don't you try some?



EDIT;
My brother had one of his friends over on the weekend, who just so happened to be the King of saying things you shouldn't. I won't write all of them, due to the fact that some were quite... errr... offensive to some groups. But this was in the car, with both our parents and my brothers girlfriend.

'Do you want to hear a joke about a dead baby?'
Silence.

Note; It's probably never a good idea to say this. Ever. Not even just for the awkward silence it produces.

Isn't it Novel? To Kill A Mockingbird

To Kill A Mockingbird - Harper Lee

Of all the books I've read, I think I can safely go so far as to say that To Kill A Mockingbird is my all time favorite. This is saying something, because I have a tendancy to love most of the books I read. That's the reason why I could never tell you my all time favorite books without much deliberation. Too much deliberation, some might say. I just like alot of things. You could call me Mr. Bingley, we both have a tendancy to be over-eager in liking everything we come across. (See below for a fantastic theory!)

I read this book for the first time when I was thirteen, I think, and I loved it. It was mid summer holidays, I was lying on out trampoline and I fell in love with the story. Since then, I've read a few other books (Okay, few might be under-exaggerating slightly), but I still find myself coming back to it. The first time I read it I didn't clearly understand the more serious aspects of it, but the language and scene-depiction is so captivating that it kept me reading through the court room scene, though I didn't funny understand it.

It's funny that I never would have read the book if my uncle had not, years ago, never returned it to his school library. I guess I'm lucky to have stumbled across it, what with it being considered a modern classic and all.

Even if it wasn't considered a 'modern classic', I'd still love it. Theres something so nostalgic about Scout, Jem, Dill and Atticus that I just adore. And it's funny, I could never give you a precise reason as to why I love this book so much. I'm not even sure I could rattle off a list of parts that I love, seperating them from the rest as the better parts. It's just something you have to love as a whole.

And tell me, who doesn't love Boo Radley?

SIDE NOTE! I have a theory. A different theory, this time. I believe that the way people respond to things can be seperated into the characters of Pride and Prejudice. (Just think, Jane Austen depicts types of people so well, why do you think she's so well known still?).

Okay, so you have the Mr. Darcy Type. They are the ones who say 'no' as a reflex when faced with a quick decision. They are tentative of new things and new people, and are more likely to dislike things at first until they get used to them.

The Mr. Bingley type (which is me, and I'm sure, many others), are the ones who are instantly eager to like evrything, even if down the line they realise they don't like something as much as they first said. They are easily entertained, and eager to approve of and accept new things.

Next you have the Miss Jane Bennets. These people are genreally the ones who won't broadcast their opinions, either because they don't know completely, or they are rather shy, or have other reasons as to why they don't share their thoughts on new things.

If you look into the characters you'll see different types of people. Austen really is quite clever, though in an understated way.

Farewell, dear readers. Until we meet again, try sailing.

For the love of!

And what next?

What constitutes a tumultous life?
Too much of a good thing, taken away?

I fell in love with a dark haired boy when I was 16. His name was Albert, and I thought I would spend the rest of my life with him in a giant house. Our children would run around the countryside and we would make our own wine.
Summer would mean rich afternoons, late lunches and dozing in the shade, intoxicated by the heat, our happiness. Winter would mean a fireplace, roaring as we sat silently in mis-matched chairs, the melting sky darkening, the smell of roast dinners calling our children home.

My teenage years consisted of dreaming with him. In our world we had conversations without words, love without concern, happiness without reason.

That was before the war.
He was always so brave. Nothing I could say would stop him from going. His eyes held that steely determindness that he accused me of having. With the first wave of troops, my grasp on him slipped.
A week after he left I found a letter he wrote to me. Explaining how he could not live with himself if the chaos of those countries came to me. He would stand guard over our life, over our future. Over me.

I stood tall. To those who scorned the soldiers, I spoke with ice. I walked, I lived with a pride based in hope, that hope built on the conviction that he had to come back to me. Whether delirium or solid faith, I held onto that inconsistent, intangible future. I could not hold his hand, so I grasped at possibility.
Alone, I would crouch against a wall, arms wrapped around myself. How I wished I could breathe the same air as he. The air of freedom. The air that had not been touched by chaos, by the greed of man, by the desire for power. The air that our children would breathe.

I was born two minutes after midnight on the 5th of July.

Sometimes I wonder if that ever changed anything. Whether if I had been born a minute later, three minutes earlier, things would have been different.
I guess I'll never know.

They say that if you're born during a storm you're destined to live a tumultous life. That July we had one of the most violent storms in five years.
'You know, you've never really had anything interesting happen to you. I'm not sure that saying is even true.' He had said to me, eyes glittering.
I protested for the sake of protesting, but inside I wondered. Silently I hoped that he was right, that it wasn't true. If it was, as long as he was with me, I would not care.

It's funny how experience makies you think differently about things. Convictions you once held so tightly to your heart become dusty, things you believed in with all your heart begin to crack under pressure.
The errosion of time makes you question those things.

And after that, what next?

Reasons why I get into trouble.

There comes a time in every persons life where they stop getting in trouble for things that they do. Unless it's something like drink-driving with an unrestrained child in a school zone going 40 over the limit on a double demerit weekend. Because that's not cool. You deserve to get in trouble if that's how you drive.
But there's a time that you realise that you have all this freedom. You can stay out until whatever time you like and it won't matter. You can go buy as many sweeties as you like, scoff them all down, and climb up trees with sparkler bombs while squirting people with water pistols. And you don't get into trouble.

So you become this invincible creature, running amok everywhere, because you are untouchable.
Or so you thought.

I've found there are a few ways they can still get you. And let me tell you, they'll get you.

The three things that get me into trouble these days...

1. Not washing my hair enough. So, you may find this slightly gross, but I only wash my hair about once a month.
'Eww, how can you do that? I have to wash mine, like, every second hour!'
'I just don't need to. I'm magic.' Which I may or may not be, that's not the point. I just prefer to day that rather than admit that 'I have a history of really bad skin so I'm on medication which prevents my glands from producing sebum, which then sticks to your hair follicles, darkening the roots, flattening the volume, and clumping strands together. Therefore, my hair simply does not need to be washed as often, because if I did, my hair would dry out to such an extreme that I would go bald. And no one wants to see that.'
'But don't you, like, feel the need to wash it?'
'No. Personally I find it quite a hassle. Hence only finding the strength to do it once a month.' That usually shuts them up. And stops them from touching my hair. I'm cool with that.
But when it comes to hairdressers (which I've only started going to because red hair suprisingly suits me) I get a barrage of scoldings.
'You need to wash your hair! It would get greasy, and you'd look terrible and you'd get a build up of product and dye and it would feel disgusting and I really don't want to touch your hair now'. And so on.
Then they tell me I should wash it at least three times a week. I shudder, nod and promise them I will.
I don't.

2. Buying books.
I recently came into a little bit of money. You know, a little more than twenty dollars and a little less than two million. I was looking for a certain paged and bound volume of a certain illustrator that seems to be quite impossible to find. I did not find it, but did find a few other pretty little volumes. Total involving two zeros. I called up my mother for advice.
'You can spend this money on books if you'd like, but you really do need to get a few essentials. It's up to you whether you get them or not. Decide for yourself!'
So I did.
'Oh Crystal, you can't keep buying all these books! You don't even have a place for them! You're getting too many books!'
Uh, did I just hear correctly? Too many books? No. That's not possible. I have barely any. (It's partially true. I don't exactly count paperbacks as real books. And if you look at it like that, I have only half of what you think).
'I'm banning you from buying any more books. No more! For a while you have to stop!'
'What about..."
'NO! Anyone who has more bought more books than there have been days of the year does not need anymore!'

Hmmph.


3. Being late. Everywhere.
Need I say more? I just get distracted, and I think my clocks may be wrong.


Oh, there are also things like not wearing P plates, forgetting to eat, etc, etc. Nothing major.
And that concludes the reasons why I get into trouble these days. Pretty weird, huh?

And with that I'm off.
Go get into trouble!

I am a machine.

He always had cold feet in the winter. Even with socks and a blanket he'd feel cold.
'Cold heart, cold skin', they'd always say, as if somehow it was his own fault he could never get warm.

It was the winter before last, wasn't it? Just when the bed required another blanket, the evenings becoming that few degrees colder.
Were we new? It felt as if being together was the oldest thing in the world, more natural than breathing, in fact.
Did you know that I stop reading in March? I've recorded the number of books I read each month and March is always the lowest.
'It's because it's near your birthday. No one likes to read on their birthday!'
I do.
I still can never explain why I just... Stop. For a whole month.

The streets are always quiet in that town. They were the sort of streets you'd play games on as a child, have your first kiss on, the ones you could lie down on, in the middle and just stare at the sky.
I liked to watch the stars.
'What's so good about them? They've stayed that way for millions of years, I doubt anything new could be up there now'
Always the voice of skeptiscism.
'You don't know that.'
'Don't know what?'
I shivered. I pressed myself against the faint warmth of the bitumen, trying to capture the remnants of a sun long set. 'Nothing.'

I never did belong to you. To anyone. Never have I belonged to any group of people, the way some belong to a particular subculture of shared interests. It's all about relatablility.
I have had friends. You were once my friend. But never have I fit in entirely.
Always to myself, owned by my imagination.