Past is present, the future does not exist. Thinking about that incinerator which is the present. I have spent the last few weeks wandering through my past. I occasionally fail to segregate these places. These pasts, these presents. I step into my apartment and think, that chair has been in this place for almost 11 years. I have stepped through this doorway for almost 11 years. Does it matter? Is seniority meaningful in solitude?
What a strange, stray week it’s been. My eyes are genuinely going to fuck. I see the creases, the stains. and the sunnysideup egg patterns while I read books. I do not know anyone who has the time to listen to me talk about it, so maybe I’ll blog it. Oh yeah. Blogging brings the niches together. A macular degeneratioin blog would consume the Internets.
But why start a discussion when the condition might still be contained and partially reversed?
