Let me just preface by opining that I expected something better. Disappointment is the wrong word; I was content, although the want for more lingers in the bayou. Were I to achieve something worth flaunting about now then I might as well build myself something worth writing about today. Something close to my heart; something that captures the essence of human spirit; the reason for living; the satisfaction of purpose. All that jazz.
All will come in time, I hope, and all will be told. To be fair, the acquaintanceship developed moments ago was satisfactory. There was one bio-mechanical entity who made me flutter like a canary, but that's perhaps because my tendency to be avian is clear for all to see. Stop showboating; there is no competition to be had. Shameless, and I should cower to the corner and bleed and cry.
I'm getting old, I found. More than I have ever realised. It frightens me so. All those ominous accidents with strangers turned out to be partially true, and I remember it all one by one, as if it drowned me into a spaceless vortex where only their voices are real, repeating over and over again to make me suffer, zoning me completely into meaninglessness. I dare to differ, only because that remains the only option for me to choose.