Whatever is going on doesn't feel like a complete figment of my imagination, and maybe it isn't, but that's irrelevant, because even if it was something, which it isn't, there's nothing I can do about it.

Right now ever.

How dramatic. But isn't that always the way?



note: I've been writing in this journal for seven years. SEVEN YEARS. how is it possible that I still don't have a clue about anything?