simmering.

there's something mildly therapeutic about tapping on the keyboard late at night, when the body's tired but the mind isn't. words can be so powerful -- if they are read, but then again, who says mine are? so if i don't write to be read, then i write to vent my emotions, or in the spontaneity of the moment, right? if so why is it with this blog i can't do either?

lies.

i can't say i am angry, i think i have past that with you. i can only think back to what you said, and scoff, cuz you don't mean it, or rather a leopard never changes its spots. time and again, you've disappointed me, but then again, who am i to judge, having done worse?

deeds, not words.

there was no eulogy -- it wasn't necessary. but then again, it's befitting, because only then there's a sense of finalty.

well this is it, this is it.