the hope

foolish as it seems, i still have my dreams... and the hope that all these words, thouands of pages (many thousands, actually)... writing an average of an hour a day for more than a decade (with some days skipped and other days lived in the words from waking to sleeping) writing and sending these words, these messages in bottles out on to the cyber seas... like a drunk robinson caruso talking to a soccer ball named amy, or [insert name here] and hoping for a response...

you're an idiot, i hear from the back of my mind... everybody is living while you are writing... and yet, someone must love words as i do, someone must want to share the words as i do, not as life, but as an extension of the mind, the ethereal life...

still, this may very well be why i am alone tonight...

what's the point?

you come here for a moment
pretend it's important
to share something with me
as if it's destiny
or something you really want
and then you're gone
suddenly as you came
carry on, carry on

what's the point?