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East Hastings.

All of those little things I used to do, I disregarded, flicked aside. I decided, for old time's sake, to follow through with the motions I set so long ago, even if they seem so unimportant and trite now. Just to see if they kept lying to me. For all I know, the mysteries unraveled by numbers reflect reality with accuracy. There will not be an opportunity to prove them right.
And I waited. Muted television, cold air through the door, sound of rain, wind on the rain, in the trees, slashing the ground. I waited, because I could tell it was building. I made note of how far into it I was, it picked up. Peaked. How far could the analogy take us. It was teasing, tourturing, it came back again. Should that have been the afterglow? Or have we gone again? Scored another point, as we say, to keep it light. Keep it from an actuality.
Intellectualizing everything, did my brain become something you could touch? Or is my feeling that just a result of how I've always been, just now realized?
I'm strictly in denial. I haven't written the things I'd like to do, am unable to play at anything past flirtation and half hints of the actions I would take.
I can tell you what I look for.
I don't watch for the detailed shots. I watch for signs of ownership. Grabbing, pressure. Choking, forced positioning.
I want to feel it. I want it to be as shocking as it is in my head. I want to see your face, and feel your breath.
I want to be able to tell you, without violating what I know is still hanging around.
And that's why I can't say it.

8:48 a.m. - 2005-12-18

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