Squinting through the cigarette smoke twisting through the thick haze put off by the citronella candles, I tried to see the poetry in the night. But... nothing. I have nothing. Frustration borne of four hours of looping loping conversation and a selfishness so intense it burns. Singed under scrutiny.

I just... don't understand. Being truly intelligent does not mean one knows everything, nor does it mean that one should act as if it is so. Maybe we're at fault for not spilling our life stories in explanation, but I feel like a certain amount of discomfort should have been observed by the other party. Silence speaks volumes, that's what they say, right? They. Whoever.

I don't know. Life experience should speak for itself, and lack thereof should be recognized for what it is.

Unfounded opinions are so unattractive.

ink :: graphite