It's all a thing. Blank space, words. A little voice saying, "tuck your head down, just keep going." I have these thoughts still but no one to tell them to. I used to have poetry. I used to be young. I used to have a heart. Now I am bored to death.

I miss this space. So much better than that book with faces. Where you can't say anything. Where your friends aren't your brain's friends; they're just people you know.

I just feel like hunkering down, waiting for these storms to pass. What storms? The ones from the west? No, no. Maybe. All the storms. I want to feel sunlight on my skin. Put my feet in warm sand. I want to hoard canned goods and staple-foods and hope that someday this all ends. I can't wait it out; can I?

I feel claustrophobic, or restless. I can't stand to be around other people. Everything smells too strongly, people talk too loudly. I feel resentful of these impositions. I want to be alone, somewhere spotlessly clean, where the only messes are my own. I want to be alone and free and subject only to my own will.

I'm tired and feel like crying. Nothing is right. Everything is wrong. The ususal, the usual, the usual.

This is the place I come to tell the truth.

Sometimes I wish I had a lot more time to myself. And that makes me feel guilty.

I feel oddly sad today. It's cold and dreary outside, though, so maybe it's not that odd. My fingers are so cold it hurts to type.

Can't even recognize your own face. Feel old, tired, disjointed. Feel keenly your humanity and laugh at the idignities. Life as you know it. Too much time alone clogs your mind.

"What was your favorite childhood band or artist? Are you still a fan?"
In early childhood, I loved the Beatles. Though I don't listen to them actively, I'm still a fan.
A little bit later (I first discovered them in the third grade when I saw the video for Just Like Heaven), it was the Cure. And I'm still a fan.