Loveless existence, paralleled by the most grim of outcomes, solitude. And no, not the '100 Years Of' kind. What forces of life decided to incorporate this aptitude for mediocrity into me? Pretty names of pretty streets with plenty of pretty people to inhabit them, but where do I fit in? At times I'm confused as to whether I'm traveling up, or forward. Possibly it's always been down and I've just been standing on my head, but who really knows? If something can keep me hanging on to a notion by a thread, then certainly I can cut that thread with my very own hands. It's 7:40 pm on a Thursday night and I am alone in my bed, yet I am so content in this solitary state that I've turned my electric blanket: off. That's right, o-f-f. Nothing should be counted on to keep you warm except for yourself and your thoughts. With a reeling mind like mine, it's hard to settle down. I need to concentrate now, and allow whatever future is waiting for me to let go to take hold of my present. Right now, I'll let the sun set and remember what you told me, whatever those pretty words were. I don't rightly remember how they sounded, but I sure liked hearing them a lot. So, goodnight.