i drink a lot and take care of people. that’s what i do. that’s who i am. i scratch things that don’t itch just to feel what could be. and i always wonder about the possibilities. and take another sip. and look cats in the eye to see their souls. and know they see more than i can explain. i don’t care about strange. i am strange. i like accents and cheeses and different places of being. i like not knowing and being in between the spaces. i am not what people want me to be but i am and i know that. between being and am–the creeping around corners and lying in wait. anyhow, melancholy passes like most things worth writing about.

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