so I went drinkngin tonight and it turns out that I started thingkning about hte important people in my life and my god i loe them al so much. such godo people who deseruve such good thnngs to happen to them.

where twill they be five years form now? nobody really knows but we wil l no doubt try to guess and control deciisona and try to form th efuture according wot what wwe beleive is better for us and them. who knwos what we will want later on, I suppose what is imposrant is what they and we all want now.

It's funny how we change over time and notice what s importnat and what is not, and relaise the traits that ar eimportant in people wwe want t spend our lives with. How do we know this before it's too late? TH poets have thewir ways of saying things and writing and speaking aobut the world but really, what are words when you have feelings...

We were maybe sixteen, bored in class, talking of big things, when he swivelled around in his plastic chair and said,

'Love is a bunch of people standing in a circle, facing each other like dominoes. Everyone's looking towards somebody else.'

It is nightmare season again.

I dream heavy and wake with bruised limbs. The fear is visceral,
the images frenetic and tremulous. Hair and trees,
the ocean's drag, loyalties tested and
the forgotten are resurrected in the twilight land of the living dead.

Swept away,
I drown and fight the sheets.
The next night I succumb gloomily to the cerebral slaughter again,
the war that lasts until sunrise.

One day the sun will fail to wake me, and
I'll creep forever in the world of shadows,
a soul that used to be someone with a dream to live.

I’ve got clouds, I’ve got stars
I’ve got long nights spent in bars
I’ve got sunshine, I’ve got rain
I’ve got pills to hide the pain
I’ve got smiles, I’ve got frowns
I’ve got a boy in every town

I’ve got a hurt wide as the sea
but all these things, they comfort me.

The Audreys -- Comfort Me

It is in the deepest of night that the future feels furthest away.

Darkness
Lord Byron (1816)

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again;--a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails--men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress--he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful--was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--
A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expir'd before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.

in correspondence

the letters we wrote, so many, many words. our lives, day by day, replayed for each other in each other's days. i re-read them now, somewhere and someone else, re-read our promises and plans and wonder where they've gone, if they're waiting around to be claimed again. our loves, our dinner plans and illnesses, the wonderment of watermelons and worms, one christmas after another, autumn following summer around, wagging tails and raising our sails. let's go let's go let's go. there were holidays abroad and home, together and apart. many long silences as we found others and lost them, then another letter would arrive, digital but there nevertheless. pages and pages, i've kept your side of our conversations, i wonder where mine are. you've found another, kept another, so please write and tell me if i'm still bound to cook you breakfast on your ninetieth birthday because when that day arrives, i'm not sure if you'll be looking out your window, waiting to collect your dues.