autobiography: part one

there is an inherent sadness to half-past-two in the morning; the only light that's there either doesn't come naturally or is hopelessly beyond reach, and it's cold and green-white either way... useless. not the helpful variety. unless it provokes rage, which doesn't come often at half-past-two because everything is black and small and wide open to swallow anger. and you can rail at the stars for doing that to you, but they just swallow that up too (and it's cliche to do so anyhow), and then you're left empty.

you know what does this to me.

same thing that does it to everyone else. presumably. and this is a small part of the kicker: they all say i'm unique. and this is a larger part: i say i'm invincible. and this is probably most of the problem: i used to be invincible, self-sufficient indestructible creature. pure control. mind and heart of steel. or at least wrapped in.

the trees look flat in this artificial light, but the leaves are in their most textured shade.