Every now and then, it's just memories. Nothing present current pounding buzzing eating eroding exploding. Just the past. The fucked-up past.

Who was I? Who was she? Who were we? What were we? Are we dead now? Were we ever alive? Or were we never anything more than figments?

I always have to remind myself, that I have this outlet for my thoughts and feelings, and for the words that do their best to represent. It's been a month since I've written here, and much longer since I've written anything relevant decent memorable therapeutic.

I want to write a novel. An autobiography of sorts. I have it in me. I have the story, or at least the beginning and the middle and a thousand endings. I have the title, even though RockGirl disapproves of the title I've chosen.

I think it's brilliant, so I'm keeping it.