i had a dream last nigth that i saw the tall boy, and he was wearing a postal workers uniform. he said he switch jobs because the pay was more, and the job allowed him more time a the end of the day to mountain bike.
also, there was no denying his interest in me still. i was working at the knit shop, and wrote a message on the wall. while i was away, he filled in the message with a bunch of written stuff. he wasn't the worlds best writer, but it was him making an effort.
every time i would go to read the note, i would get distracted.
his pants were too short.
it seems like we were all raising each other.
when you are alone in new york, you look for someone to raise and someone to raise you. you have an older figure and a younger figure.
especially true for twenty somethings today.
when you leave new york; you leave those figures, and theres the test.

will you survive.

out there.

in the wilds of the west.

what will you make of yourself.

that is now the question the i know the answer to, but something i am now starting to try to figure out.

i was thinking today that we are all stories. meeting other stories. meeting other stories.

sometimes you like someone's story so much, that you sit down, and decide you want to spend a lot of time with this story. sounds fun. sound adventurous, sounds like something i would like to contribue to.

so you do.

and you contribute. and you contribute. and then you contribute.

then one day you've contibuted all you can.

and they are still silent. bored. boring.


oh. and i think we are all turning into computers.