but then, oh, it got better, i started to feel the rhythm of this alone-ness and dance to it and everything fell into place like the 1500 puzzle pieces that are lying on the floor would, with the difference that they would only turn into an ugly (or beautifully kitsch, if you prefer) picture of three girls on a motorcycle and my newfound sense of being wouldn't. it won't. really.
unless you wish for a reply.
then the pinkeye is back.
camomille never happened.
i read of a man once who kept a list of all the people who didnt reply to his letters and when he was fed up with waiting (years went by, the man was patient!) he killed all of them (he was also mentally unstable!) using the pen he wrote all his letters with on the same day even though they lived in different countries and some of them where out of their houses at parties or yoga lessons. but he did it. and what i learned from him is that to avoid breaking a good pen one must refrain from writing to people who can't reciprocate. (i learned this word in first grade from my deskmate who was surely a precocious little fella and it has since left a profound mark on all my human interactions - that's perhaps why i nod and grin sometimes to people whose words i don't understand. so they don't feel terribly alone because their sounds go right through me and float off the surface of the earth into space where no one can hear anything because there isn't any sound because the molecules are fickle out there.)