…is what you get when you spend your whole life trying to go it alone, survive more or less, then try to talk about it. My circle of friends has always been small and my successes (and failures) have always been big, as have my habits. Apart from sensing that there’s always room to drop life by yet another octave in order to simulate testosterone more deeply, I have few social or truly creative impulses, and this leads to a state of affairs in which those who know me best don’t believe the extent to which they are truly my best (and only) friends.
And as a converse, they don’t understand the extent to which my vexation must have developed in order for me to cut them off. I do wish people would actually hear what I say and, in a similar vein, let themselves trust both my intentions and the future.
I am tired of talking to others and tired of talking to myself, but I am also tired of silence.