i am trying really hard to come up with something tangible. i am trying really hard to conjure up some image. all this while, i've been staring out into damp, sunny mornings and i have been hoping for a breakthrough. and i always end up coming back to staring at the familiar folds of skin on my knuckles, always my knuckles. and i've been studying the stitches in my black pencil skirts. i don't care about meaning anymore. i don't mind leaving it up to those who are dispassionate and learned and bored. me, i'm just tired and disconsolate. me, i have no talent.

i feel no responsibility. no urge to record a generation's smoke-exhaling, vodka shooting, easy-loving life. it is only lately that i even see it for what it is - this instant gratification. maybe that is the first step towards dissociation. maybe some day soon, i will look at them, at them, i will not refer to us. there will be me and there will be them. and maybe that will be the day when staring into space, earnestly and hopefully (clearly persistently), will pay off. maybe i'll stop coming back to myself. maybe i'll take off and will land in that familiar yet strange territory i've come to dream of lately. all i hope to carry is a sense of deja-vu. and maybe a dixon ticonderoga 2/HB and some yellow note-paper. i wonder if i'll miss myself.