If I were a real writer, I could write about anything, and make it legible, maybe even enjoyable.

Well, I'm not a real writer, even though I fancy myself as one from time to time. I doubt that I fool anyone except maybe myself.

Remember how I used to write about beaches and islands and oceans and crap like that? Well, tonight I'm going to write (briefly) about a lighthouse.

It was so fucking bright - blindingly so, one would think - but it never once hurt my eyes at all. And, even though that coast was fraught with danger after peril after hazard, I never once doubted that I would be safe. That light was everything to me. My guide. My inspiration. My target, for not only safety, but for paradise.

And then some dipshit had to come along and extinguish the light.

I miss the light. Not only for everything that it did for me, but for everything that it stood for.

Already the memory of it fades from my mind, already the blobs fade from my vision.