here we sit like birds in the wilderness.

Isn't all this public self discovery stupid? Boring? I know I am. I'm sitting up with Bucket sleeping, thinking about songs and recording and my puppies and what exactly makes me tick. Wondering how horrible a person I am. Recalling how every girl I've dated hates me on some level. Either I broke it off gracelessly, harshly or spinelessly-none of the time well-or they left me and, I assure you, grace has never been a component of me being left. I have raged against the dying of those lights. Sometimes anger, sometimes tears but usually both. I constantly wonder at people who maintain relationships with people they have biblically known.

I'm a passionate guy, but that's no excuse.

All that heat and spinning dies hard. I know. The thing is I can't let myself walk away from it without it changing me. We remain some fucked up amalgam of those who we've loved and who have loved us. I guess we hold ourselves as important regardless, but more so for having burned so hot. Memorable for our ardor and our irrationality.

Me? I think I must be hard to forget because I'm wired so poorly; so likely to short. I love to little and say too much. I assume this heat must be some legacy. I assume I will continue to move in those I've left and those who left me by will alone, by my mute refusal to be forgotten.

But more likely; the occasional reminder of me doesn't ache or long, but annoy. My memory a too clever and overused quote: Oscar Wilde, Francois de La Rochefoucauld. Maybe even that is flattery. Maybe they just think "how sad" and go right back to forgetting.

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